YTHE  PARADOX 


AND 


OTHER    POEMS 


].   ALBERT  WILSON 


1  He  is  the  freeman  whom  the  truth  makes 
And  all  are  slaves  beside." 


NEW    YORK 

G.     P.     PUTNAM'S     SONS 

182  FIFTH  AVENUE 

1877 


COPYRIGHT,  1877, 

BY 
J.  ALBERT  WILSON. 


MY    ESTEEMED    FRIENDS, 

XHr.  anfc  iflrs.  lobn  $.  Sattb, 

IN    MEMORY  OF  THE   MANY  PLEASANT  HOURS   WE    HAVE    SPENT 
TOGETHER   DISCUSSING   THE 

GREAT    PROBLEM    OF    EXISTENCE, 

THIS   LITTLE  GARLAND  OF   POETIC  THOUGHT,    GLEANED   FROM   THE   LEAFY 
HEDGE-ROWS  AND  MOSSY  NOOKS  WHICH    SKIRT   THE   PATHWAY   OF 

LIFE, 

Is 


THE    AUTHOR. 

Albany,  N.  Y.,  Dec.  i,  1877. 


PREFACE. 


THE  author  begs  to  present  herewith  to  the  indul 
gent  reader  a  trifling  posy  of  wild  flowers,  gathered 
by  the  wayside  of  thought.  If,  upon  inspection, 
their  colors  be  found  less  fair,  or  their  perfumes  less 
fragrant,  than  those  of  their  more  favored  compan 
ions  reared  in  the  gay  parterre,  he  has  yet  no 
apology  to  offer  ;  for  these  claim  naught,  save  as 
untutored  blossoms,  springing  spontaneously  from 
the  free  soil  of  an  honest  heart. 


CONTENTS 


FACE 

THE  PARADOX i 

THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  SUN 47 

THE  QUEST  OF  THE  NIGHT-WIND — A  CHRISTMAS  TALE 69 

THE  PATHS  OF  LIFE 87 

THE  VOICELESS  SOCL 97 

THE  VOICES  OF  THB  AIR 105 

THE  SLEIGH-RIDE in 

SOLITUDE — A  SUMMER  IDYL. 121 

THE  DREAM 129 

OUSTER'S  CHARGE. 137 

ODE  TO  NATURE 147 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

THE  POET'S  SOLILOQUY 155 

THB  POET'S  LAMENT. 136 

THE  MORNING  OF  LIFE. 157 

IN  THE  WILD  ARKANSAS  WOOD 159 

THE  UNATTAINABLE 160 

ALONE. 162 

THE  IXXER  LIFE 164 

THE  FRUITS  OF  SORROW. 165 

WHERE  THE  LORDLY  HUDSON  RTTER...  ,.  166 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

AFLOAT 167 

CLARIBEL 169 

THE  UNIVERSAL  EPITAPH 170 

THE  MILLS  OF  GOD 171 

LITTLE  BY  LITTLE 172 

SERVIA 173 

LINES  UPON  A  FAGOT 174 

To  A  LAND  BIRD  AT  SEA 174 

THE  RESTLESS  SPRITE 176 

LUCRECE 177 

DIVES  AND  LAZARUS 179 

THE  SEA 180 

MULTUM  IN  PARVO 181 

LIFE  AND  DEATH 182 

THE  OLIVE  BRANCH 183 

THE  SUICIDE 184 

THE  LOVER'S  ORDEAL 186 

HEROES  OF  '76 189 

SKATING  GLEE 190 

CUPID'S  MISSION 191 

SPARKS  FROM  THE  ANVIL 192 

NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 193 


FABLES. 

THE  BLIND  OWL 197 

THE  TEMPTED  DERVISE 200 

THE  DERVISE  AND  THE  DWARF...  ..  201 


HUMOROUS    POEMS. 

PLATONIC  PHILOSOPHY 205 

EVOLUTION  AND  INVOLUTION 206 

EPITAPH  ON  JACK  NEVILLE 207 

THAT  BABY 207 

INDIAN  LADDER 208 

THE  NIGGER  MEETIN' 210 

FEEJEE  ISLAND 216 


THE  PARADOX. 


THE   PARADOX. 


I. 

WHEN  whisp'ring  zephyrs  woo  the  pine, 
And  wake  to  life  the  blushing  Spring  ; 

When  droops  the  trailing  eglantine, 
And  plovers  pipe,  and  linnets  sing  ; 

When  cloy'd  with  sweets  the  drowsy  bee 

Forgets  the  roses  in  his  way ; 
When  robins  build  in  ev'ry  tree, 

And  swallows  weave  their  web  of  play  ; 

When  glow  the  fruit  trees  wrapt  in  bloom, 
And  modest  daisies  bend  their  eyes  ; 

When  lilacs  yield  their  sweet  perfume, 
As  incense  to  the  blushing  skies  ; 

When  shining  glow-worms  haste  to  light 
Their  lanterns,  in  the  dewy  eve  ; 

When  artful  spiders  through  the  night, 
With  care  their  spangl'd  meshes  weave  ; 


4  THE  PARADOX. 

When  crickets  chirp  on  ev'ry  hearth, 
And  sparrows  twitter  in  the  eaves ; 

When  wanton  squirrels,  in  their  mirth, 
Play  hide  and  seek  amid  the  leaves  ; 

All  nature,  thrill'd  with  happy  life, 

This  truth  proclaims,  through  field  and  flood, 
And  Reason  bids  the  heart  believe — 

A  GOD  THERE  IS,  AND  HE  IS  GOOD  ! 

II. 
I  question  not,  in  anxious  mood, 

What  hap  the  morrow  may  betide ; 
If  God  there  be,  and  He  is  good, 

I  know  enough  for  ev'ry  need. 

I  cavil  not  o'er  jarring  creed, 

Nor  vex  with  fears  my  weary  brain  ; 

Enough — I  know  that  ev'ry  seed, 
Doth  yield  an  ear  of  golden  grain. 

I  know  not  when  the  sand  may  run, 
Which  calls  my  spirit  from  the  earth  ; 

I  know  but  this — that  never  sun 

Did  set,  but  gave  the  morrow  birth. 

I  seek  not  death,  nor  do  I  shun 

The  buffet  of  his  venom'd  dart ; 
'Tis  nature's  law,  that  ev'ry  son 

Of  earth — with  life  must  surely  part. 


THE  PARADOX. 

I  fear  not,  in  the  realms  above, 

To  meet  my  own,  and  Nature's  Lord  ; 

His  justice,  mercy,  kindly  love 
All  nature  publishes  abroad. 

And  yet  at  times  dark  doubts  arise, 
Like  clouds,  my  feeble  faith  to  pale ; 

And  anguish  toss'd,  my  spirit  tries 
In  vain,  to  pierce  the  misty  veil. 

III. 
If  God  there  be,  and  God  is  good, 

Why  leave  his  creatures  in  suspense  ? 
Why  screen  himself  from  sight,  and  brood 

Behind  eternal  silences  ? 

If  God  there  be,  and  God  is  just, 
And  He  the  First  Almighty  Cause  ; 

Why  thrive  the  wicked,  while  to  dust 
The  good  are  ground  by  nature's  laws  ? 

If  God  there  be,  as  pure,  as  just, 

As  holy  as  befits  a  God, 
How  brook  injustice,  sensual  lust, 

And  rapine  through  creation  broad  ? 

If  God  there  be,  and  God  is  love, 
Why  then  do  mortals  suffer  ill  ? 

How  brooks  He,  from  His  throne  above, 
To  see  His  earthquakes  maim  and  kill  ? 


6  THE  PARADOX. 

If  God  there  be,  a  God  of  truth, 

A  God  all-merciful,  and  kind  ; 
Why  rack  the  flesh  with  pain,  with  ruth 

And  fear,  oppress  the  tortured  mind  ? 

If  God  there  be,  and  He  All-wise, 

All-seeing,  and  Omnipotent ; 
Why  then  creation's  mysteries, 

Upon  imperfect  beings  spent  ? 

IV. 
Yet  is  He  silent  ?     Viewless  He  ? 

Or  are  we  not  ourselves  in  fault  ? 
Who  knows,  but  Him  we  daily  see  ? 

Who  knows,  by  Him  are  daily  taught  ? 

We  grope  'midst  nature's  mysteries, 

Spreads  mountain,  meadow,  lake  and  stream  ; 
Gray  ocean's  waste  around  us  lies, 

Above  us  worlds  unnumber'd  gleam. 

The  kindly  sun  illumes  the  day, 

The  silver  moon  pours  forth  her  light  ; 

The  gentle  stars,  with  glist'ning  ray, 
Dispel  the  gather'd  shades  of  night. 

All  nature  teems  with  life  !  but  why 

That  life  exists,  or  if  by  chance, 
Or  deep  design,  or  whence,  we  lie 

And  grope  in  Reason's  ignorance. 


THE  PARADOX. 

What  boots  it,  if  by  science  taught, 
'Tis  proved,  that  out  of  lower  forms 

Mankind  evolv'd  ?     This  goes  for  naught 
Toward  silencing  the  soul's  alarms. 

Where  hies  the  soul  ?     This  mystery 
To  solve,  each  mind  is  anxious  bent ; 

In  turn  each  solves  it,  but  the  clay 
Breaks  not  its  silence  eloquent. 

V. 

O  Sun  !     In  thy  diurnal  round, 

Obeying  nature's  primal  laws  ; 
Say  !  mark'd  thou  trace,  or  heard'st  thou  sound, 

Of  Him  !  The  First  Almighty  Cause  ? 

O  Moon  !  whose  placid  silver  rays 
Still  gild  the  forehead  of  the  night  : 

Say  !  heard'st  thou  aught  through  nature's  maze 
Of  Him  who  said— "  Let  there  be  light "  ? 

Ye  Stars !  who  watch  with  myriad  eyes, 
Throughout  creation's  broad  expanse  ; 

Know  ye  the  God  ?     His  mysteries. 
Do  they  unfold  beneath  your  glance  ? 

O  Earth  !  abode  of  suff'ring  man, 
In  all  thy  wealth  of  field,  or  flood  ; 

Throughout  creation's  outmost  span, 
May  we  by  searching,  find  out  God  ? 


8  THE  PARADOX. 

The  silent  Sun  set  bathed  in  light ; 

The  speechless  Moon  her  passage  sped  ; 
Nor  Sun  by  day,  nor  Moon  by  night, 

Gave  sign,  nor  any  answer  made. 

I  mark'd  the  myriad  Stars  arise, 

But  speechless  their  fix'd  gaze  was  bent ; 

And  all  creation's  mysteries, 
Lay  wrapt  in  silence  eloquent  ! 

VI. 
All  nature  teems  with  life  !     The  air 

Throbs  pregnant,  with  its  countless  brood  ; 
And  million  fishes  quit  their  lair 

To  throng  the  palpitating  flood. 

Yet  not  a  tithe  of  fervent  life 

Discloses  to  the  tardy  eye  ; 
Amaz'd — we  find  with  instinct  rife 

Creation's  whole  immensity ! 

This  world  is  countless  worlds  in  one  ! 

Each  leaf  supports  a  million  trees  ; 
In  ev'ry  blade,  an  ample  farm 

Well  stock'd  with  herds,  some  creature  sees. 

A  speck,  beneath  a  magic  lens, 
Becomes  a  country  fair  and  vast : 

Within  a  drop,  the  tutor'd  sense 
Reveals  a  million  lives  at  least. 


THE  PARADOX. 

In  every  morsel  that  I  eat, 

In  every  draught  which  slakes  my  thirst ; 
Some  patriot  wails  a  nation's  fate, 

Some  monarch  mourns  an  empire  lost. 

If  we,  with  faulty  human  sense, 

Have  made  some  progress  toward  the  light ; 
What  beauties  must  Omnipotence, 

Disclose  unto  celestial  sight  ! 

VII. 
All  nature  teems  with  life  !     Alas  ! 

Imperfect  life  !     Her  tender  charge, 
By  some  sad  lesion  frequent  pass 

Distorted,  from  her  sounding  forge. 

Not  always,  propp'd  against  the  sky 

At  sunset,  looms  the  giant  pine ; 
At  times  he  mocks  the  critic's  eye 

With  stunted  trunk  and  gnarled  limb. 

Not  always,  in  the  higher  forms 
Of  instinct  life  doth  Nature  trace, 

With  skilful  pencil,  glowing  warm, 
Proportion'd  lineaments  of  grace. 

I  lately  viewed  a  human  birth, 
Unhuman  in  its  monstrous  form  ; 

A  loathsome  thing,  scarce  fit  for  earth, 
And  yet  of  healthful  parents  born. 


10  THE  PARADOX. 

It  fed  and  slept,  it  sometimes  spoke, 
But  feebly,  as  a  soul  confin'd  ; 

A  far-off  voice,  which  dreamy  broke 
The  silence,  and  oppress'd  the  mind. 

What  was  this  creature  ?     Was  a  soul 
Entomb'd  within  that  ghastly  cage  ? 

A  mind  immortal,  in  that  hell 

To  pine,  and  waste  its  noble  rage  ? 

VIII. 
All  nature  teems  with  life  !     But  why 

Comes  death  to  mar  with  cruel  pain  ? 
Why  born  to  life,  if  born  to  die  ? 

Why  give — then  ask  the  boon  again  ? 

The  sky  is  gray  with  myriads 

Of  restless,  blithe  ephemera  ; 
Who  spring  to  life  in  countless  clouds, 

And  live  but  for  a  single  day. 

'Twould  seem  a  part  of  Nature's  plan, 
That  life  by  life  should  constant  fall  ; 

Some  creatures  prey  on  lordly  man, 
But  man,  presumptuous,  preys  on  all. 

'Tis  plain  all  creatures  fear  to  die, 
Yet  none  may  'scape  the  fatal  yoke  ; 

Nor  strength,  nor  speed,  nor  beauty's  sigh, 
Avails  to  ward  death's  dreaded  stroke. 


THE  PARADOX.  II 

Of  life — death  makes  a  common  end  : 
In  man  and  beast,  in  field  and  flood, 

Life  constant  dies  ;  and  dying,  tends 
To  furnish  living  life  with  food. 

Since  death  be  part  of  Nature's  plan, 

And  Nature  rules  by  God's  decree  ; 
'Twere  impious  for  the  creature  man 

To  question  death's  expediency. 

IX. 
I  watch'd  a  mother  bend  above 

Her  infant,  as  he  smiling  slept ; 
Her  maiden  pledge  of  wedded  love, 

He  sleeping  smiled,  she  smiling  wept. 

But  tears  of  joy  !     I  gaz'd  again, 

His  sleep  seem'd  troubl'd,  and  his  breath 

Came  short  and  quick,  as  though  in  pain  ; 
One  gasp  !     He  slept  the  sleep  of  death. 

And  she,  who  lately  sought  to  span 

The  future,  and  forecast  the  years 
When  he,  her  joy,  estate  of  man 

Should  reach,  wept  now  despairing  tears. 

I  mark'd  a  lover,  as  he  walk'd 

Beside  his  love,  'neath  forest  trees  ; 
Nor  dream'd  of  death,  but  blith'ly  talk'd 

Of  future  fame,  and  wedded  ease. 


12  THE  PARADOX. 

And  even  as  he  spake,  there  came 
A  flash  !  a  shock  !  a  cry  of  fear  ! 

A  million  lights  !  a  ball  of  flame  ! 
Then  dark  his  eye,  and  deaf  his  ear  ! 

And  stricken  by  that  blast  he  fell 

And  lay  in  death  !     His  plighted  troth 

Annull'd  !     His  fame — a  funeral  knell  ! 
His  bridal  bed — six  feet  of  earth  ! 

X. 

The  bells  salute  the  bridal  morn, 

The  bride  awakes,  her  maids  prepare 

The  wedding  garments,  and  anon, 
She  stands — the  orange  in  her  hair. 

She  stands  before  the  altar  ;  he, 

Her  love,  beside  her  ;  and  the  heart 

And  voice  of  each,  vows  constancy 

For  life  !     Till  death  the  twain  shall  part. 

Anon,  around  the  festive  board, 
They  mingle  with  the  merry  rout  ; 

The  bride  is  pledg'd,  her  smiling  lord 
Responds, — at  last  the  guests  pass  out 

And  they  alone  are  left.     The  sun 
At  morning  rose  upon  them  twain  ; 

He  sets, — but  now  the  twain  are  one, 
For  life  !     To  share  its  joys  and  pain. 


THE  PARADOX.  13 

He  clasps  her  to  his  heart,  and  first 
Salutes  her  by  the  name  of  "  wife  !  " 

Why  pales  he  ?     Why  his  spirit's  burst 
Of  agony  ?     What  sudden  strife 

Of  anguish  thrills  her  brow  ?  while  pale 

As  marble,  sets  her  features'  play 
All  cold  and  fix'd  !     Her  pulses  fail  ! 

One  gasp  !     He  holds  but  lifeless  clay  ! 

XI. 
I  loved  my  friend,  and  firmly  knit, 

Our  souls  stood  like  twin  ivies  twin'd  ; 
The  thought  of  each,  was  instant  writ, 

By  each,  upon  the  other's  mind. 

No  common  love,  our  common  soul 
Enwrapp'd,  but  still  without  pretence 

Or  fraud,  each  paid  to  each  the  whole 
Of  love,  from  out  his  inmost  sense. 

He  pined  and  sicken'd.     By  his  bed 

Of  pain  I  watchful  vigils  kept  : 
I  nursed  him,  bathed  his  fever'd  head, 

Or  gently  fann'd  him  as  he  slept. 

His  kindly  eyes  respond  with  love  ; 

His  lips  repay  my  watchful  care  ; 
No  hand  but  mine  his  couch  shall  move ; 

No  hand  but  mine  his  draught  prepare. 


14  THE  PARADOX. 

Anon  a  change.     His  fever'd  mind 
Grows  restless.     In  his  troubl'd  sleep 

He  feebly  moans.     Alas  !    My  friend 
Lies  cold  in  death !     I  lonely  weep. 

A  further  change.     Death's  magic  wand 
Distorts  his  features  !     Strangely  moved, 

I  start !     I  shrink  !     I  fearful  stand  ! 
And  loathe  the  form  I  lately  loved  ! 

XII. 
All  life  moves  on  as  in  a  dream  ; 

Scarce  know  I  that  my  friend  lies  dead 
Where  tapers  shed  a  ghastly  gleam 

Upon  a  white  sepulchral  bed. 

The  fire-light  pales.     With  fitful  moan, 
Without,  the  tempests  wildly  rave  ; 

And  thrills  the  awful  monotone 
Of  Ocean's  vast  and  dreamy  wave. 

The  hour  draws  near  the  noon  of  night ; 

Dim  spectres  haunt  each  echoing  hall ; 
The  embers  die  ;  the  taper's  light 

Is  quench'd.     Grim  darkness  covers  all ! 

Now  nameless  horrors  seize  my  soul ! 

In  vain  I  strive  with  labor'd  breath 
To  move  !  to  shriek !  while  on  me  roll 

The  nightmare  terrors  born  of  death  ! 


THE   PARADOX.  IS 

At  last  my  palsied  voice  I  gain  : 

A  light  is  brought ;  the  shades  are  sped  ; 

The  spectres  fly  !  I  stand  again 
Alone — beside  the  silent  dead  ! 

Beside  my  friend  !     Yet  dread  to  raise 

The  mantle,  and  behold  that  face 
Which  oft  in  far-off  happy  days 

Lay  press'd  to  mine,  in  fond  embrace. 

XIII. 
A  gloomy  grave  :  a  leaden  sky  ; 

A  silent  throng  ;  a  white-hair'd  priest ; 
A  prayer  ;  a  drowsy  homily  ; 

Then — "  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust  !  " 

A  solemn  pause  ;  a  sullen  sound  ; 

A  hollow  murmur,  low  at  first ; 
Now  louder, — spades  plied  quickly  round, 

Heap — "  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust  !  " 

Th'  whisp'ring  crowds  anon  disperse  ; 

The  priest  drones  on  of  "  faith  and  trust  ;  " 
I  hear  alone  his  far-off  voice 

Say — "  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust  !  " 

At  eve,  I  watch  the  garden  gate, 

And  vainly  list  his  well-known  tread  ; 

I  murmur  that  he  stays  so  late, 

They  tell  me — that  my  friend  is  dead  ! 


1 6  THE  PARADOX. 

I  seek  him  in  his  custom'd  place, 
And  sadly  haunt  his  silent  room  : 

He  comes  not ;  sends  nor  word,  nor  trace, 
To  light  my  soul's  despairing  gloom. 

Where  hies  the  soul  ?     This  mystery 
To  solve,  each  mind  is  anxious  bent ; 

In  turn  each  solves  it,  but  the  clay 
Breaks  not  its  silence  eloquent. 

XIV. 
God  bless  thee  for  that  sturdy  thought, 

O  Tennyson  !  which  boldly  reads, — 
"  There  lives  more  faith  in  honest  doubt, 

Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds." 

Yet  some  unhesitating  damn 

The  doubter,  for  his  honest  doubt ; 

Consign  him  to  eternal  flame, 

And  from  their  heaven  shut  him  out. 

The  broken  threads  of  early  faith 
To  join,  they  trouble  not  the  least  ; 

Yet  boldly  threat  unending  death  ; 

"  'Tis  writ — and  he  who  doubts  is  lost." 

No  burning  ray  of  hidden  thought 

Thy  revelation  brings  to  me  ; 
In  vision — if  thou  sawest  aught, 

'Tis  thine  alone, — /did  not  see. 


THE  PARADOX. 

Because  thou  sayest — "  He  hath  writ 
This  message," — shall  I  base  my  faith 

Upon  thy  word  ?     My  reason  split 
On  shifting  sands  of  mortals'  truth  ? 

Dare  not  to  scoff  at  Reason's  guard, 

Thou  impious  wretch  !  Lest  He  who  gave 

That  Reason,  claim  His  blest  award, 
And  send  thee  driv'liiig  to  the  grave. 

XV. 

Thou  bigot,  arrogant  and  blind, 
Who  seekest,  on  Damastes'  bed, 

To  stretch  by  force  the  shrinking  mind, 
Or  quell  by  force  the  rising  head  ! 

Who,  in  thy  bigotry  and  pride, 

Consignest  to  the  lowest  hell 
The  man  who  walks  by  Reason's  guide, 

And  scoffing,  nam'st  him — "  Infidel !  " 

How  darestthou,  blind  worm  of  earth, 

To  pass  upon  thy  brother  clod  ? 
Take  back  the  insult  to  thy  teeth, 

Thou  "  Infidel  "  to  Nature's  God  ! 

Thou  madman,  mouthing  windy  froth, 
Curse  on,  with  candle,  book  and  bell ; 

Since  I  thy  superstition  loathe, 
Am  I  become  "  an  Infidel  ?  " 


1 8  THE  PARADOX. 

Because,  forsooth,  I  scan  the  page, 

Of  God's  great  love  spread  all  abroad  ; 

Am  I  fit  subject  for  His  rage  ? 
Am  I  an  "  Infidel "  to  God  ? 

To  certain  things,  an  "  Infidel  " 
I  am, — thy  foolish  blasphemies 

About  a  God  who  builds  a  Hell, 
And  loves  the  blood  of  sacrifice. 

XVI. 
Thou  sayest  "  Love  Divine  hath  writ 

A  message  to  the  sons  of  men  ; 
A  message,  not  of  human  wit, 

But  written  with  inspired  pen." 

I  read  here  ghastly  tragedies, 

Which  shock  the  soul  of  moral  sense  ; 
Can  I  believe  these  blasphemies- 

Against  Divine  Omnipotence  ? 

Thou  promis'd  me  a  God  of  truth, 
Thou  bringest  me  a  God  of  lies  ; 

A  God  of  love,  who  loves  forsooth 
The  mangled  limbs  of  sacrifice. 

A  God  of  mercy,  who  in  flames 

Torments  His  puny  worms  of  earth  ; 

A  God  of  justice,  who  condemns 
His  creatures  to  eternal  death. 


THE  PARADOX,  19 

Is  this  the  God  who  loves  to  dwell 

In  smiling  earth  and  beaming  sky  ? 
This  Nature's  God  ?     Thou  Infidel, 

Great  Nature  scorns  thy  blasphemy  ! 

I  worship  God  !     A  God  of  love, 

Reveal'd  in  Nature's  smiling  page  ; 
Thou  seek'st  by  sacrifice  to  move, 

A  demon  of  incarnate  rage  ! 

XVII. 
Thou  sayest — "  He  who  doubts  is  lost, 

For  doubt  leads  on  to  unbelief; 
Then  anguish  wreck'd,  by  passion  toss'd, 

The  hopeless  wretch  lies  drown'd  in  grief." 

I  grant  you,  he  who  doubts  is  lost 
To  Hell's  alarms  ;  for  Reason's  guard 

Right  quickly  quells  her  gloomy  host, 
And  bears  their  captive  Heavenward. 

Thou  askest — "  How  can  feeble  sense 

Unaided,  show  a  God  to  be  ? 
Can  man  disclose  Omnipotence  ? 

Or  prove  the  truth  of  Deity  ?  " 

He  can.      In  ev'ry  leaf  I  see 

A  witness  to  His  tender  care  ; 
He  blossoms  in  the  fruitful  tree, 

His  whispers  thrill  the  list'ning  air. 


2O  THE  PARADOX. 

His  foot-prints  flow  in  gentle  rills, 
His  glances  wake  the  morning  ray  ; 

He  sits  upon  the  ev'ning  hills, 

And  paints  the  steps  of  parting  day. 

He  opens  in  the  buds  of  Spring, 

He  smiles  where  Summer  harvests  glow ; 
•His  peace  the  Autumn  breezes  bring, 

His  Winter  wraps  the  earth  in  snow. 

XVIII. 
O  brother  of  the  feeble  faith, 

Who  doubtest  if  a  God  there  be  ; 
Who  dreadest  still  the  thought  of  death, 

Lest  death  should  last  eternally. 

Come,  walk  with  me  the  leafy  wood, 

The  sounding  shore,  scan  ocean's  waste  ; 

And  read  His  love  spread  all  abroad. 
The  boundless  message  of  His  grace. 

Why  fear  to  die  ?     There  is  no  death, 
But  holy  calm  succeeding  strife  ; 

A  mist  !  a  thrill  !  a  deep-drawn  breath  ! 
Which  wafts  the  soul  to  higher  life. 

The  timid  mind,  so  long  enthrall'd 

By  superstition,  sees  in  death 
A  monster  shape, — and  stands  appall'd, 

To  watch  the  body  cease  to  breathe. 


THE  PARADOX.  21 

But  that  which  lately  in  thy  sight, 

A  loathsome  corpse  repulsive  lay  ; 
Was  not  thy  friend,  his  spirit  bright 

Was  soaring  in  eternal  day. 

The  prison'd  soul,  with  quicken'd  eye, 
Beheld  the  light,  and  anxious  strove 

To  rend  its  prison-house,  and  fly 
To  meet  the  message  of  His  love. 

XIX. 

Thou  sayest,  friend — "  There  is  no  God  ; 

From  chance,  result  all  Nature's  laws  ; 
By  chance  evolv'd  this  earthly  clod  ; 

And  life  evolv'd  without  a  cause. 

"  There  is  no  soul.     The  creature  man, 

But  one  in  Nature's  family, 
Obeys  maternal  Nature's  plan, 

And  lives  to  propagate  and  die. 

"  No  life  exists  beyond  the  grave, 

No  punishment,  no  recompense. 
This  earthly  life  is  all  we  have, 

Our  only  joys — the  joys  of  sense." 

But  friend  !     If  Nature  works  by  laws 

To  form  and  populate  the  earth  ; 
There  surely  was  a  primal  cause 

To  give  those  laws  coherent  birth. 


22  THE  PARADOX. 

If  planets  in  fix'd  orbits  run, 

And  each  his  stated  pathway  find  ; 

If  seasons  change  with  changing  sun, 
There  surely  is  a  guiding  mind. 

It  may  be  true,  the  creature  man 

Arose  by  gradual  advance 
To  mental  wealth  ;  but  'tis  not  plain 

How  order  can  result  from  chance. 

XX. 

I  love  those  shadowy  myths  of  eld, 
Those  echoes  from  old  classic  times  ; 

Ere  Homer's  matchless  verses  swell'd, 
Or  Pindar  wrote  his  flowing  rhymes. 

When  Chaos'  womb  gave  triple  birth 
To  Nature,  Erebus,  and  Love  ; 

When  sprang  to  life  the  heaving  Earth, 
The  Sky,  and  last,  almighty  Jove. 

When  Titans  waged  their  futile  war 
Against  almighty  Jove's  decree  ; 

When  brooded  Pax,  whilst  Dread  and  Awe 
Flank'd  either  side  of  Majesty. 

When  blest  Minerva  sprang  to  birth 
Full-arm'd  from  out  the  head  of  Jove  ; 

When  Atlas  strode  the  trembling  earth, 
Or  held  the  firmament  above. 


THE  PARADOX.  2$ 

When  first  divine  Prometheus  wrought 

His  god-like  task,  with  danger  rife  ; 
And  mounted  on  the  walls  of  thought, 

To  seek  the  hidden  springs  of  life. 

When  Tantalus,  with  mad  desire 

To  test  the  gods'  divinity  ; 
Young  Pelops'  flesh  prepar'd  with  fire, 

Nor  felt  a  father's  agony. 

XXI. 

I  love  these  mystic  tales,  they  teach 

The  progress  of  our  human  kind  ; 
They  prove  that  man,  the  truth  to  reach, 

Hath  ever  bent  his  anxious  mind. 

No  futile,  vain  imaginings, 

The  Theogon  of  Hesiod  ; 
No  empty  lyric  Pindar  sings, 

Nor  forms  of  air  were  Homer's  gods. 

All  teem  with  sentiment  refined, 

With  gems  by  patient  labor  wrought ; 

Each  stands  a  monument  of  mind, 
And  shadows  some  gigantic  thought. 

By  these,  our  future  course  we  map, 

The  horoscope  of  Time  we  cast ; 
We  span  the  intervening  gap, 

And  link  the  present  to  the  past. 


24  THE  PARADOX. 

The  thought  which  thrill'd  that  early  day 
Is  echo'd  in  each  bosom  now  ; 

The  theme  of  modern  poet's  lay, 
Was  sung  by  bards  of  long  ago. 

No  planet  beams  with  silver  ray, 
But  then  her  gentle  glances  cast ; 

No  murmur  wakes  the  air  to-day, 
But  echoes  in  the  dreamy  past. 

XXII. 
When  furrows  mark  the  brow  of  Time  ; 

When  million  years  have  pass'd  away  ; 
When  he  who  wrote,  or  read  this  rhyme, 

Alike  is  moulder'd  into  clay. 

When  broad  Atlantic's  billows  rave 
O'er  towns  where  now  mankind  exist  ; 

When  mild  Pacific's  currents  lave 

These  fields  w.ith  golden  harvests  blest. 

When  new-born  continents  arise 

From  out  each  ocean's  shifting  bed ; 

When  Summer  zephyr  softly  sighs 
O'er  shining  pearls,  and  corals  red. 

When  Colorado's  famous  peak 

Scarce  lifts  his  head  above  the  surge  ; 

When  monsters  sport,  and  sea-gulls  shriek 
Within  Sahara's  sandy  verge. 


THE  PARADOX.  2$ 

When  all  that  now  exists  is  done, 

In  earth  and  air,  in  sea  and  sky  ; 
When  all  that  is  not,  is  begun, 

Through  Nature's  vast  immensity. 

In  far-off  realms  of  perfect  bliss, 

Shall  I  keep  Wisdom's  gracious  tryst  ? 

Or  lost  in  senseless  nothingness, 
Forget  that  I  did  e'er  exist  ? 

XXIII. 
One  common  hope  pervades  each  breast, 

Doth  vaunting  Hope  still  boast  a  lie  ? 
Is  dying  man  forever  blest, 

Or  dies  he  to  Eternity  ? 

Doth  Death  roll  back  the  veil  of  life, 

And  entrance  give  to  perfect  bliss  ? 
Or  brings  he  but  an  end  to  strife, 

Eternity  of  nothingness  ? 

Whence  springs  our  hope  ?     No  special  seed, 

For  all  alike  proclaim  its  spell ; 
Nor  faith,  it  forms  the  common  creed 

Of  Christian,  Jew  and  Infidel 

The  Arab  feels  it,  as  he  guides 

His  camel  through  the  shifting  sand  ; 

The  sailor,  when  by  foaming  tides 

He  shipwreck'd  lies  on  hostile  strand. 


26  THE  PARADOX. 

It  nestles  in  the  soldier's  heart, 

Shot  through  and  through,  it  will  not  die  ; 
It  rides  upon  the  deadly  dart, 

And  sings  of  immortality  ! 

The  Indian  feels  it,  when  he  ki'lls 
His  stallion  for  the  fallen  brave  ; 

One  common  hope  each  bosom  thrills, — 
"  There  lives  a  life  beyond  the  grave  !  " 

XXIV. 
O,  brother  !     If  a  God  there  be, 

And  Nature  cries  aloud  there  is  ; 
How  can  that  God  with  dignity, 

His  work  return  to  nothingness  ? 

Without  volition  came  we  forth, 
Great  Nature's  greatest  mystery ; 

The  body  sprung  from  pregnant  Earth, 
The  soul  the  breath  of  Deity  ! 

The  body  sinks  to  earth  again  ; 

'Tis  well, — and  matches  Nature's  plan  ; 
But  is  the  spirit  lost  in  Him 

Who  gave  it  life — a  moment's  span  ? 

If  soul,  the  breath  of  Deity, 

Remingle  with  His  essences  ; 
Why  then  to  nothingness  we  die, 

For  this  annihilation  is. 


THE  PARADOX. 

Yet  can  a  soul  begrim'd  with  sin, 

Rejoin  its  native  Deity  ? 
Can  Virtue  take  corruption  in, 

And  keep  her  vestal  purity  ? 

The  God  who  form'd  a  human  soul, 

Will  from  annihilation  save  ; 
'Tis  He  who  saith  alike  to  all, — 

"  There  lives  a  life  beyond  the  grave  !  " 

XXV. 

O  Soul!     Thou  shadow  undefin'd  ! 

Where  dwellest  thou,  in  head,  or  heart  ? 
Art  thou  identical  with  mind, 

Or  dost  thou  act  from  mind  apart  ? 

Is  soul  reveal'd  by  depth  of  love, 

Which  broadly  welcomes  all  his  kind  ; 

An  eye  turned  inward  to  reprove, 
Yet  to  another's  fault  still  blind  ? 

A  lip  which  scorneth  flattery, 

Which  dares  be  true,  but  fears  to  lie  ; 

A  hand  which  tempers  misery, 
Yet  vaunteth  not  its  charity  ? 

A  heart  which  seeketh  after  God, 
Yet  wastes  no  time  on  idle  creed  : 

Which  spends  itself  in  deeds  of  good, 
And  minist'ring  to  others'  need  ? 


28  THE  PARADOX. 

A  body  chaste  and  undefil'd, 
Meet  temple  for  the  living  God  ; 

In  ev'ry  sin  a  little  child, 

A  man  full-grown  in  ev'ry  good  ? 

If  by  these  signs  the  soul  we  find, 
And  mind  exists  distinct  from  soul ; 

Some  men  of  subtle  thought  refin'd, 
May  have,  I  fear,  no  soul  at  all. 

XXVI. 
If  mind  and  soul  exist  as  one, 

And  each  with  each  identical  ; 
The  babe,  whose  race  is  but  begun, 

Possesses  no  immortal  soul. 

The  idiot,  gibbering  to  the  wind, 
Is  but  a  beast  in  human  form  ; 

The  madman,  having  lost  his  mind, 
Must  share  the  future  of  the  worm. 

I  knew  a  man  of  mental  wealth, 
Of  culture,  and  of  mind  remov'd 

From  vulgar  joys  ;  who,  while  in  health, 
Was  widely  known,  and  much  belov'd. 

The  poor  ne'er  sought  his  door  in  vain  ; 

The  widow  found  her  wrong  redress'd  ; 
He  watched  beside  the  bed  of  pain, 

And  by  the  orphan's  voice  was  bless'd. 


THE  PARADOX.  29 

A  foe  to  vice,  but  virtue's  friend, 

The  harden'd  sinner  shunn'd  his  path  ; 

Yet  would  the  penitent  amend, 

He  tendered  love,  unmix'd  with  wrath. 

One  morn,  when  bent  on  deed  of  love, 
His  horse  took  fright,  and  rudely  thrown, 

He  senseless  lay  ;  while  vainly  strove 

His  friends  to  make  their  presence  known. 

XXVII. 
He  linger'd  long  'tvvixt  life  and  death  ; 

At  last  stern  death  his  prey  resign'd  ; 
Alas  !     The  blow  which  spared  his  breath, 

O'erturned  the  balance  of  his  mind. 

He  nothing  knew  of  former  life, 

But  feebly  would  he  moan  and  rave  ; 

He  lived  for  years.      His  fruitless  strife 
Is  done.     He  fills  an  idiot's  grave. 

A  maiden  comely, — good  as  fair  : 

She  loved,  and  thought  her  love  return'd  ; 

The  day  arrives, — the  guests  repair 
To  find, — a  trusting  heart  is  spurned. 

And  he  who  sought  her  for  his  bride, 
Then  rudely  snatch'd  his  promise  back  ; 

He  lived.     She,  broken-hearted  died  ; 
She  died — a  raving  maniac. 


3O  THE  PARADOX. 

If  mind  and  soul  exist  as  one, 

Two  souls  were  lost  without  default ; 

The  good  man  naught  by  goodness  won, 
The  maiden's  truth  was  spent  for  naught. 

We  grope  in  Reason's  ignorance, 

And  blindly  stumble  as  we  run  ; 
Yet  seemeth  it  to  feeble  sense, 

That  mind  and  soul  can  scarce  be  one. 

XXVIII. 
If  soul  attain  a  higher  sphere, 

When  future  years  unnumber'd  roll ; 
May  not  the  mind  its  harvest  bear, 

As  handmaid  to  the  rub'ng  soul  ? 

May  not  the  mind,  which  gropes  through  time, 
At  last  attain  to  know  the  whole  : 

And  prove,  when  freed  from  earthly  grime, 
The  chiefest  attribute  of  soul  ? 

Throughout  the  earth  we  find  that  vice 

Is  fostered  still  by  ignorance  ; 
The  cultured  mind  e'er  strives  to  rise, 

And  scorns  the  bestial  joys  of  sense. 

Not  his,  the  truly  cultured  mind 

Alone,  who  burns  the  midnight  oil ; 

The  hodman's  thought  may  be  refined, 
While  bending  at  his  daily  toil. 


THE  PARADOX.  31 

Not  always  doth  the  sordid  soul 

Grow  richer,  as  he  gathers  in 
The  coins  of  knowledge  ;  lower  still, 

They  sometimes  plunge  him  into  sin. 

Those  souls  who  highest  flights  attain, 

Do  not  alone  for  knowledge  strive  ; 
He.r  gold  they  count  but  means  to  win 

Fair  Wisdom's  fruit,  by  which  they  live. 

XXIX. 

The  fleeting  soul,  by  death  releas'd 

To  life  is  quickly  ushered  in  ; 
No  garment  changed,  she  stands  confess'd, 

In  virtue's  garb,  or  robed  in  sin. 

For  life  is  but  a  school,  where  we 

Still  graduate  to  higher  spheres  ; 
The  term  is  for  Eternity, 

And  Deity  the  task  prepares. 

As  each  forsakes  this  lower  form, 

So  must  he  enter  on  the  next ; 
And  they  who  care  not  here  to  learn, 

Will  surely  there  be  sore  perplex'd 

The  rich  there  purchase  no  degree  : 

Availeth  neither  place,  nor  blood  ; 
The  pauper  stands  by  royalty, 

And  each  must  prove  his  calling  good. 


32  THE  PARADOX. 

Some  souls,  who  strut  in  pride  below 
May  find  that  there  they  merit  least : 

And  some,  who  here  unnoticed  go, 

May  there  be  classed  amongst  the  best. 

In  time,  we  sow  our  future  still ; 

No  moment  ever  speeds  us  by, 
But  bears  a  germ  of  good,  or  ill. 

To  blossom  in  Eternity. 

XXX. 

At  times,  vague  shadows  cross  my  mind, 

And  dimly  their  reflection  cast ; 
They  bear  an  outline  undefined, 

And  seem  like  echoes  from  the  past. 

A  moment  serves  to  spend  their  force  ; 

One  flash,  and  they  have  passed  from  sight  ; 
As  speeds  an  arrow  on  its  course, 

Or  meteor,  down  the  brow  of  night. 

A  touch,  a  glance,  the  voice  of  friend, 
Will  serve  to  wake  my  sleeping  mind  ; 

'Tis  vain, — the  fickle  shadows  blend  ; 
They  fly, — nor  leave  a  trace  behind. 

They  haunt  me  in  the  crowded  street, 

I  find  them  in  the  silent  wood  : 
They  come  when  glows  the  noonday  heat, 

They  in  the  softened  twilights  brood. 


THE  PARADOX.  33 

What  are  these  phantoms  of  the  mind, 

But  memories  from  childhood  cast  ? 
Or  are  they  glimmerings  refined, 

From  out  an  undiscover'd  past  ? 

If  in  the  future,  ne'er  shall  die 

This  soul,  which  now  exists  in  me  ; 
May  not  a  dead  existence  lie 

Entombed  in  past  Eternity  ? 

XXXI. 

My  dog  comes  bounding  to  my  call ; 

I  speak,  he  seems  the  sense  to  guess  ; 
I  fondle  him, — now  face  and  tail 

Are  eloquent  with  happiness. 

He  knows  my  footstep  on  the  stair, 

My  trace  along  the  crowded  street : 
For  me  alone,  his  watchful  care, 

No  other  may  his  welcome  greet. 

In  sleep  he  now  unconscious  lies. 

He  dreams.      Some  nightmare  shape  appals. 
The  tears  roll  downward  from  his  eyes  ; 

He  starts, — he  moans, — and  feebly  howls 

He  wakens  when  I  speak  his  name, 

Then  sinks  again  to  slumber  sweet : 
Now  face  and  tail  alike  proclaim 

His  dream  with  happiness  replete 


34  THE  PARADOX. 

'Twould  seem  that  something  kin  to  mind 

Finds  refuge  in  this  gentle  hound  ; 
Who  knows,  but  here  a  soul  confined 

May  wrestle  with  its  narrow  bound  ? 

The  God  who  mapped  creation's  plan 

Ne'er  formed  the  humblest  thing  in  vain  ; 

Will  he  preserve  the  creature  man, 
And  leave  all  others  to  their  pain  ? 

XXXII 
O  Poet  of  the  kindly  heart  ! 

Who  said'st, — "  Thou  would' st  not  friendship  own 
With  him,  who  in  his  selfish  sport, 

Would  wanton  crush  the  helpless  worm." 

Of  all  thy  writings  multiform, 

No  word  beams  forth  in  purer  rays  ; 
Thy  plea  for  the  poor  trodden  worm, 

Hath  crowned  thy  name  with  lasting  grace. 

The  kindly  man  is  kind  to  all  ; 

No  creature  lives  beneath  his  care  ; 
Alike  he  hearkens  ev'ry  call, 

And  all  alike  his  kindness  share. 

He  questions  not  of  need,  or  use  ; 

Enough — that  they  on  earth  exist ; 
God's  creatures  all.     Dare  he  abuse 

The  subjects  of  his  Maker's  trust  ? 


THE  PARADOX.  35 

In  wanton  sport  he  takes  no  life, 

God's  sacred  gift.     His  pressing  need, 

And  that  alone,  must  guide  the  knife 
Which  robs  the  creature  of  its  meed. 

Who  mercy  seeks  from  Deity, 

Must  mercy  to  His  creatures  show  ; 
He  naught  can  claim,  who  wantonly 

Abused  that  sacred  trust  below 

XXXIII. 
I  love  the  gentle  Pantheist, 

Who  traces  God  in  earth  and  sky  ; 
Who  sees  Him  on  the  harvest  rest, 

And  hears  Him  in  the  zephyr's  sigh. 

Who  feels  Him  in  the  summer  wind, 
And  marks  Him  stem  the  rising  flood  ; 

Who  listens  to  His  voice  refined, 
Come  swelling  from  the  vocal  wood. 

Who  notes  His  step  upon  the  green, 

Where  blooms  the  modest  violet ; 
Who  meets  His  glances  in  the  beam, 

When  morning  rays  the  meadows  greet. 

Who  smells  Him  in  the  perfumed  breath 

Of  flowers,  on  the  ambient  air  ; 
Or  in  the  sweetly  scented  swath, 

Which  claims  the  mower's  ready  care. 


3G  THE  PARADOX. 

Who  breaks  Him  in  his  daily  bread, 

And  drinks  Him  from  the  sparkling  spring  ; 

Who  feels  Him  in  the  embers  red, 
And  knows  the  God  in  everything. 

Who  useth  all  without  abuse, 

But  useth  all  things  reverently  ; 
Who  holds  that  naught  may  sin  excuse, 

Since  all  form  part  of  Deity. 

XXXIV. 
What  wond'rous  instincts  underlie 

The  life  of  so-called  lower  forms  ; 
In  all  that  creep,  or  swim,  or  fly, 

Through  Nature's  vast  emporiums. 

That  egotist — vain,  empty  man, 

Of  all,  the  only  helpless  one  ; 
Adopting  kindly  Nature's  plan, 

Becomes  a  pupil  to  the  worm. 

These  lower  creatures  quickly  glean 
Great  Nature's  task  at  single  glance ; 

But  puny,  helpless,  pompous  man 

Stands  crowned  with  pride  and  ignorance. 

Thus  crowned  a  king,  vain  empty  fool, 
He,  only  drone  in  Nature's  hive  ; 

Proclaims  that  he  was  born  to  rule, 
And  seeks  all  others  to  enslave. 


THE  PARADOX.  37 

By  honest  labor,  not  content 

To  win  his  bread  from  day  to  day  ; 
He  uses  craft  to  supplement, 

And  scruples  not  to  rob  and  slay. 

In  turn,  he  steals  from  each  its  art  ; 

He  takes  his  victim's  all  by  force  ; 
Then  stabs  his  teacher  to  the  heart, 

And  feasts  upon  the  mangled  corse. 

XXXV. 

I  sometimes  question  if  'tis  right 

That  man  should  live  by  shedding  blood  ; 

That  he  should  sate  his  appetite 

By  spreading  death  thro'  field  and  flood. 

I  walk  adown  the  crowded  mart, 

And  view  each  semi-human  form  ; 
Mark  here  a  head,  and  there  a  heart, 

Still  throbbing  thro'  their  pulses  warm. 

It  may  be,  that  no  wrong  is  done, 

I  know  not,  yet  it  seems  to  me, 
These  carcases  of  flesh  and  bone 

Make  up  a  ghastly  cemet'ry. 

This  eager  crowd,  who  buy,  and  sell, 

And  hack  the  corpses  lying  nigh  ; 
Appear  like  foul  hyenas  all, 

Who  feast  on  dead  mortality. 


33  THE  PARADOX. 

I  know  that  all  through  Nature's  plan, 
Life  preys  on  life,  and  all  succumb  ; 

Yet  does  this  warrant  thinking  man 
To  turn  his  body  to  a  tomb  ? 

If  wrong  there  be,  and  sober  sense 
Can  scarce  assume  that  all  is  right ; 

I  fear  a  very  weak  defense 

May  prove — "  transmitted  appetite." 

xxxvi. 
What  sorrows  racK  this  suffering  clay, 

What  anguish  thrills  the  tortured  brain  ; 
What  agonies,  from  day  to  day, 

Are  crowded  in  life's  little  span. 

The  body,  fouled  by  fell  disease, 
Infects  the  sympathizing  mind  ; 

The  mind,  when  lost  its  customed  ease, 
Upon  the  body  wreaks  the  wound. 

Unlike,  distinct,  yet  nearly  joined  ; 

So  nearly  that  they  still  defy, 
Their  common  meeting  place  to  find, 

All  scientific  scrutiny. 

The  sluggish  body,  bound  by  sense, 

Nor  asking  larger  destiny  ; 
The  soul,  with  eagerness  intense, 

Forever  struggling  to  be  free. 


THE  PARADOX.  39 

Like  some  proud  eagle,  who  was  wont 

To  track  the  courses  of  the  Sun  ; 
Entrapped,  now  vainly  strives  to  mount, 

And  madly  wrestles  with  his  chain. 

Thus  hapless  man,  by  dual  birth, 

Is  doomed  to  two-fold  misery  ; 
His  body  racked  by  pains  of  earth, 

His  soul  with  mental  agony. 

XXXVII. 
One  grand  injustice  ever  thrills 

All  Nature  with  a  sense  of  wrong  ; 
That  Deity  should  visit  still 

The  father's  crime  upon  the  son. 

Yon  puny  creature,  racked  by  pain, 

Was  not  for  his  own  sin  accursed  ; 
His  palsied  limbs,  and  feeble  brain, 

Are  sequels  to  his  sire's  lust. 

Yon  maiden  of  the  hollow  eye, 

The  racking  cough,  and  aspect  wan  ; 

Earned  not  the  wrath  of  Deity, 
She  expiates  a  mother's  sin. 

Yon  monster,  whose  distorted  form 

Scarce  likeness  bears  to  man,  nor  brute  ; 

Hath  done  no  ill,  he  pays  the  wrong 
Wrought  by  some  ancestor  remote. 


40  THE  PARADOX. 

Yon  idiot,  gibbering  to  the  wind, 

For  wrath  Divine  ne'er  furnished  cause  ; 

His  sire  pawned  his  offspring's  mind, 

When  he  transgressed  stern  Nature's  laws. 

Can  God — a  God  of  Justice  be, 

Who  lets  the  sinner  'scape  His  wrath  ; 

Yet  vengeance  wreaks  eternally, 
Upon  these  sinless  ones  of  earth  ? 

XXXVIII. 
By  foul  hereditary  taint, 

Not  only  is  the  body  bound  ; 
The  mind  full  often  makes  complaint, 

And  sighs  her  unprovoked  wound. 

That  "  Like  begetteth  like,"  we  find 
A  constant  law  in  Nature's  plan  ; 

'Tis  therefore  meet  that  faults  of  mind 
Should  likewise  pass  from  sire  to  son. 

The  murderer,  whom  we  condemn 
To  death,  may  still  be  innocent ; 

His  father's  bias  toward  the  crime 
Was  with  his  inmost  being  blent. 

The  thief,  who  steals  his  daily  bread, 

May  be  an  honest  man  in  fact  ; 
The  thievish  impulse  in  his  blood 

Impels  him  to  the  thievish  act. 


THE  PARADOX.  41 

The  wanton,  burning  with  desire, 

In  spirit  may  be  pure  and  good  ; 
Her  mother  nursed  the  lustful  fire 

Which  revels  in  the  daughter's  blood. 

We,  guided  by  blind  human  sense, 

See  but  the  act,  and  call  it  sin  ; 
But  will  Divine  Omniscience, 

Who  sees  the  soul,  that  soul  condemn  ? 

XXXIX. 
Tis  written  in  Mosaic  code, — 

"  An  eye  for  eye,  a  tooth  for  tooth  ; 
And  whoso  sheds  his  fellow's  blood, 

Shall  be  condemned  to  suffer  death." 

Our  modern  Christianity 

Adopts  this  law  as  come  from  God  ; 
But  with  strange  inconsistency 

Rejects  the  rest  of  Moses'  code. 

Thus,  murder,  we  with  murder  pay  ; 

Why  not  ?     The  precept  is  of  God  ! 
If  any  question,  we  reply, — 

"  'Tis  writ  in  the  Mosaic  code  !  " 

For,  if  a  valued  life  be  lost 

By  murder  foul,  we  loathe  the  deed  ; 

And,  counting  not  the  second  cost, 

We  straightway  cause  the  wretch  to  bleed. 


42  THE  PARADOX. 

The  victim's  orphans  cry  for  bread  ; 

Some  impious  people  therefore  claim 
The  slayer  should  be  doomed  to  tread 

A  daily  round,  that  bread  to  win. 

But  then  they  cannot  make  pretense 
That  this  suggestion  comes  from  God  ; 

'Tis  only  simple  common  sense, 
Not  found  in  the  Mosaic  code. 

XL. 
O  Earthly  Justice  !     Blind  thou  art  ! 

Thy  judgments — empty  as  the  wind  ; 
Thou  seeest  not  the  human  heart, 

Thou  knowest  not  the  human  mind  ! 

Thy  pomp,  and  pride,  and  panoply, 
Scarce  hide  thy  ignorance  from  view  ; 

Thy  nerveless  hand  and  sightless  eye, 
Still  greet  the  false  and  spurn  the  true  ! 

Thy  path  lies  over  bones  of  men, 
Some  guilty,  many  innocent  ; 

Yet  still  thy  boastful  tongue  and  pen, 
Are  of  thy  wisdom  eloquent  ! 

Thy  wit  were  folly  in  a  clown  ; 

Thy  lore  but  fits  a  charlatan  ; 
Thy  proof  the  scandal  of  the  town  ; 

Thy  judgment  on  a  quibble  turns  ! 


THE  PARADOX.  43 

Thy  ermine  sullied  is  with  lies  ; 

Thy  purple  trims  a  harlot's  crest  ; 
Thy  scales,  unbalanced,  lean  to  vice  ; 

Thy  sword  is  aimed  at  Virtue's  breast  ! 

Eternal  Justice  !     Here  on  earth, 

A  spectre  bears  thy  sacred  name  ; 
A  mountebank,  a  monster  birth, 

A  wanton  wench  of  common  fame  ! 

XLI. 

Immortal  Pope  !     Whose  master  mind 

E'er  scorned  thy  heritage  of  pain  ; 
And  soaring  high  on  thought  refined, 

Approved  the  ways  of  God  to  men  ! 

Who,  grappling  with  thy  doubting  faith, 

At  last  attained  to  wisdom's  height ; 
And  from  the  embattled  walls  of  truth 

Proclaimed,  "  Whatever  is,  is  right." 

Be  thou  my  mentor  and  my  guide  ; 

Infect  me  with  thy  inward  peace  ; 
Teach  me  this  truth,  whate'er  betide, 

"  Still  virtue  leads  to  happiness  !  " 

Strengthen  my  weak  and  wav'ring  faith ; 

Instruct  my  feeble  wings  to  rise  ; 
Engrave  upon  my  heart  the  truth, 

"  Though  man's  a  fool,  yet  God  is  wise  !  " 


44  THE  PARADOX. 

Teach  me  to  know  the  God  above  ; 

Teach  me  to  work  his  will  below  ; 
Teach  me  this  subtle  truth  to  prove — 

"  True  knowledge  is  ourselves  to  know." 

Impart  to  me  thy  eagle  ken, 

The  calmness  of  thy  balanced  mind  ; 

Teach  me  to  live  in  love  with  men, 
And  to  the  will  of  God  resigned  ! 

XLII. 
"  Our  Father  !     Who  in  Heaven  art, 

Forever  hallowed  be  Thy  name  ; 
Thy  kingdom  come,  Thy  will  be  done, 

In  Heaven,  and  on  earth  the  same  ! 

"  Give  me  my  bread  from  day  to  day  ; 

Forgive  the  evil  I  have  wrought  ; 
Teach  me  with  love  my  foes  to  pay, 

And  cleanse  from  sin  my  inmost  thought 

"  Protect  me  through  the  gloomy  night ; 

Enfold  me  in  Thine  arms  of  love  ; 
O  guide  my  tott'ring  steps  aright, 

And  lead  me  to  Thy  home  above  !  " 

The  tired  eyelids  downward  creep  ; 

The  weary  limbs  compose  to  rest  ; 
The  drowsy  head,  enwrapped  in  sleep, 

Lies  pillowed  on  the  mother's  breast. 


THE  PARADOX.  45 

The  mischief-loving  hands  are  stilled  ; 

The  busy  feet  no  longer  rove  ; 
The  sleeping  face  with  peace  is  filled, 

As  conscious  of  a  mother's  love. 

Fond  memory  backward  wings  her  flight. 

And  turns  the  page  of  time,  to  see 
A  little  child  repeat  at  night 

His  prayer,  before  a  mother's  knee. 

XLIII. 
Eternal  and  unchanging  One  ! 

Whose  being  fills  immensity  ; 
Who  ever  was  ere  time  begun, 

And  will  be  to  Eternity  ! 

Whose  kingdom  boundless  is  as  space, 
Where  shining  worlds  unnumbered  roll  ; 

Whose  presence  knows  no  biding  place, 
Yet  fills  each  atom  of  the  whole  ! 

To  all  diverse,  yet  still  the  same, 

In  ev'ry  age,  in  ev'ry  clime  ; 
Or  Druid  circles  dot  the  plain, 

Or  bends  the  pilgrim  at  the  shrine  ! 

To  all  diverse,  yet  still  the  same, 

By  angels,  and  by  men  adored  ; 
f  Or  Moslem  calls  on  Allah's  name, 
Or  Christians  hail  their  risen  Lord  ' 


46  THE  PARADOX. 

Forgive  thy  puny  worm  of  earth, 

His  eager  thirst  for  hidden  truth  ; 
Which  germinating  at  his  birth, 

Hath  grown  and  strengthened  with  his  youth. 

Teach  me  to  know  Thee  as  Thou  art, 
Teach  me  to  quell  my  skeptic  mood ; 

Engrave  upon  my  doubting  heart — 
A  GOD  THERE  IS,  AND  HE  IS  GOOD  ! 


THE  BRIDE  OF   THE  SUN. 


NOTE. 

IT  is,  I  believe,  a  widespread  opinion,  among  scientific  men  at 
least,  both  in  the  United  States  and  elsewhere,  that  at  some  remote 
period  of  time  a  large  portion,  and  quite  possibly  the  whole,  of  the 
North  American  continent,  was  peopled  by  a  highly  civilized  race, 
of  whose  history  we  know  comparatively  nothing,  not  even  a  definite 
tradition  relating  to  their  existence  having  come  down  to  us. 

This  opinion  is  for  the  most  part,  I  understand,  founded  upon 
numerous  and  continued  discoveries  of  the  remains  of  various  articles 
of  domestic  use,  implements  of  husbandry  and  of  warfare,  all  point 
ing  conclusively  to  a  degree  of  civilization  to  which  the  wild  North 
American  Indian  of  to-day  is  an  utter  stranger.  Nor  does  it  seem 
reasonable  to  suppose  that  he  once  possessed  these  arts,  and  has  lost 
them  simply  through  disuse,  without  retaining  even  the  slightest  de 
gree  of  knowledge  in  regard  to  them. 

These  indications  of  a  prehistoric  race  upon  the  American  conti 
nent  go  even  further  than  I  have  yet  stated,  for  we  find  that  the  iron, 
copper,  and  silver  mines  of  the  country  had  been  worked  before  the 
known  advent  of  Europeans  upon  this  hemisphere  ;  thus  evidencing 
in  those  who  worked  them  an  acquaintance  with  the  nature  and  use 
of  metals  certainly  not  to  be  ascribed  to  the  Indian  of  history,  armed 
only  with  his  rude  bow,  and  an  arrow  tipped  with  a  sharp  flint. 

Furthermore,  there  must  have  been  some  knowledge  of  at  least  the 
elementary  principles  of  art  among  this  people,  for  upon  the  smooth 
surface  of  the  rocks  in  Colorado,  Arizona,  and  other  states  and  ter 
ritories  of  the  west  and  southwest,  are  found  to-day  engraved  out 
lines,  (of  evidently  a  very  remote  date,)  of  the  forms  of  men,  ani 
mals,  trees,  and  other  natural  objects,  showing  in  their  execution  no 
mean  degree  of  skill. 

Again,  in  various  sections  of  the  country  we  find  large  mounds, 
popularly  called  "  Indian  mounds,"  but  which  in  many  cases,  when 
opened,  are  found  to  contain  articles  clearly  not  belonging  to  any 
3 


5O  THE  BRIDE    OF   THE  SUN. 

race  of  Indians  with  which  we  of  the  present  day  are  familiar,  or  of 
which  our  forefathers  are  known  to  have  had  any  knowledge.  Even 
the  primary  intent  of  these  mounds  is  still  a  matter  of  doubt,  some 
claiming  them  to  be  of  the  nature  of  cairns,  and  used  as  burying- 
places  for  the  dead ;  others,  that  they  were  fortifications  for  de 
fence  ;  and  still  others,  that  they  are  certainly  the  remains  of  great 
cities  which  for  untold  ages  have  crumbled  to  decay. 

Without  pausing  to  discuss  the  merits  of  these  respective  theories, 
or  of  either  of  them,  it  may  be  here  mentioned  as  a  fact,  attested  by 
numerous  reliable  travelers  in  that  section,  that  upon  the  face  of  some 
of  the  most  precipitous  cliffs  of  Colorado  and  .  vicinity,  stairways 
have  at  some  remote  period  been  laboriously  cut,  extending  upward 
in  many  cases  several  hundred  feet,  and  ending  in  caverns  or  recesses 
literally  chiseled  out  of  the  solid  rock,  having  apparently  been  pre 
pared  as  places  of  refuge  by  a  probably  weaker,  or  at  least  non-com 
bative  race,  from  the  intrusions  of  a  warlike,  and  most  likely  more 
powerful  foe. 

I  have  said  that  no  definite  traditions,  so  far  as  is  known,  exist 
among  the  present  Indians,  of  ary  prehistoric  race  answering  to  this 
(probably  sometime  existent)  civilized  people  or  peoples.  There  are, 
I  believe,  traditions  current  among  several  of  the  western  tribes  con 
cerning  such  a  people  ;  but  these  are  so  vague  and  shadowy  as  to  be 
of  no  real  value  toward  elucidating  the  mystery  which  enfolds  alike 
the  origin,  the  subsequent  history,  and  the  ultimate  fate  of  those  of 
whom  they  assume  to  treat.  In  this  respect  the  great  continent  of 
North  America  to-day  is,  and  probably  must  ever  remain,  terra 
incognita. 

If,  then,  the  learned  savants  of  the  earth  are  wholly  at  a  loss  to 
solve  this  enigma  and  disperse  the  shadows  which  enwrap  the  past, 
may  not  Fancy,  with  at  least  some  show  of  justice,  seize  upon  that 
broad  domain  as  hers  by  right  ?  May  she  not,  by  the  power  of  her 
enchantment,  recall  once  more  to  life  the  long-forgotten  dead ;  and 
having  once  taken  possession  of  this  hitherto  unoccupied  region, 
may  she  not  assume  to  hold  the  same  against  all  comers,  until  law 
fully  ousted  in  favor  of  the  paramount  right  of  well-established  fact  ? 


THE   BRIDE   OF   THE    SUN. 


PRELUDE . 

GLAD  Spring-time  crowns  the  earth  with  flowers ; 

Bright  Summer  ripes  the  golden  grain  ; 
Brown  Autumn-leaves  strew  forest  bowers, 
Stern  Winter  locks  the  murm'ring  main. 

But  when  the  Spring-bud  first  had  birth  ; 
When  first  grew  ripe  the  golden  grain  ; 
When  Autumn-leaves  first  clad  the  earth, 
Or  Winter  frosts  first  chill'd  the  main — 
Who  knows  ? 

The  peasant  plows  the  yielding  sod  ; 
The  sailor  dares  the  roaring  deep  ; 
The  priest  pays  sacrifice  to  God  ; 

The  maiden  smiles,  and  widows  weep. 

But  when  the  plow  first  pierced  the  sod, 

But  when  the  ship  first  spurned  the  deep; 
When  first  the  nations  called  on  God, 
Or  joy  did  smile,  or  sorrow  weep, 
Who  knows  ? 


52  THE  BRIDE    OF    THE  SUN. 

From  broad  Atlantic's  pebbly  coves, 

From  calm  Pacific's  measured  flow  ; 
From  Arctic  wilds,  from  Southern  groves, 
There  comes  a  voice  of  long  ago. 

But  what  the  message  it  conveys  ; 

But  whose  the  lips  that  gave  it  birth  ; 
Whose  hand  first  cleared  the  forest's  maze, 
Whose  foot  first  trod  the  smiling  earth, 
Who  knows  ? 

By  dark  Missouri's  murky  flood, 

On  Mississippi's  banks  we  trace, 
In  Northern  granite,  Southern  sod, 
The  foot-prints  of  an  unknown  race. 

But  who  they  were,  or  whence  they  came, 

But  what  their  fate,  or  how,  or  when 
They  lived,  their  origin,  their  name, 
All  buried  deep  from  mortal  ken, 

Who  knows  ? 

On  Colorado's  dizzy  height, 

Their  eyries  pierced  the  Western  sky  ; 
The  Eastern  plain  proclaims  their  might, 
And  ruined  towns  unnumbered  lie. 

But  who  undaunted  scaled  the  height, 

A  safer  resting-place  to  gain  ; 
Or  who  with  multitude  and  might 
Built  those  vast  cities  of  the  plain, 
Who  knows? 


THE  BRIDE    OF    THE  SUN.  53 

Enough,  they  lived  !     Like  us  they  felt 

Ambition's  spur,  Hopes  kindling  pow'r. 
They  lived  for  Time  !     Like  us  they  dwelt 
Not  only  on  the  passing  hour. 

Their  works  proclaim  their  kindred  mould, 

Like  us,  they  sickness,  sorrow  bore  ; 
Joyed,  wept,  strove,  bartered,   bought  and 

sold, 

Sinn'd,  feared,  despaired,  and  died, — what 
more  ? 

God  knows  ! 


Where  Mississippi's  wealth  of  waters 
Through  the  smiling  valleys  flow, 
With  untiring,  ceaseless  motion 
Rolling  downward  to  the  ocean, 
Dwelt  a  people,  rich  and  mighty 
Untold  centuries  ago. 

Traced  they  back  their  generation 
To  the  old  Egyptian  kings  ; — 
They  were  cultured,  wealthy,  noble, 
Skilled  in  Art  and  Science,  able 
To  protect  themselves  in  war, 
To  maintain  themselves  in  peace. 
They  had  sculptors,  poets,  painters, 
All  the  old  Egyptian  learning  ; 
They  had  palaces  of  marble, 


54  THE  BRIDE    OF    THE   SUN. 

They  had  battlements  of  stone  ; 
They  had  railroads,  printing  presses, 
Steamboats,  and  suspension  bridges, 
And  all  other  great  improvements 
Which  we  fondly  call  our  own. 

They  had  mines  of  gold  and  silver, 
Lead  and  iron,  tin  and  copper ; 
They  had  navies  on  the  ocean, 
They  had  armies  on  the  land  ; 
They  had  droves  of  swiftest  horses, 
They  had  flocks  and  herds  uncounted, 
They  had  multitudes  of  bondmen, 
Subservient  to  command. 

Their  king  was  great  and  noble  ; 
Far-famed  for  might  in  battle  ; 
Far-famed  for  wit  and  wisdom, 
And  for  clemency  in  peace  ; 
They  had  lords  and  they  had  nobles, 
They  had  courts  and  learned  judges, 
And  on  all  the  nations  round  them 
To  levy  tribute  did  not  cease. 
They  had  countless  towns  and  cities  ; 
They  had  endless  parks  and  gardens ; 
Filled  with  bronze  and  marble  statu'ry, 
With  plants  and  trees  and  flowers  ; 
They  had  galleries  of  paintings, 
They  had  schools  of  metaphysics. 


THE  BRIDE   OF    THE  SUN.  55 

Where  philosophers  and  scholars 
Oft  passed  the  morning  hours. 

Where  the  lordly  Mississippi 

Joins  the  Gulf  of  Mexico, 

Rose  a  mountain,  clad  with  forests, 

Capped  with  endless  snow. 

Monarch  of  a  mighty  range, 

Long  since  vanished  from  the  sight ; 

Victim  to  volcanic  change, — 

Swallowed  by  the  earthquake's  might 

Untold  centuries  ago  ! 

Here  doth  stand  their  Capital, 

Trenched  about  and  guarded  well 

By  battlement  and  moat ; 

Here  their  king  and  nobles  dwell, — 

Here  treasury  and  arsenal 

Are  walled  with  stone,  while  clad  in  mail, 

With  sword  and  musket  armed  all, 

Their  watchmen  pace  without. 

Perched  upon  the  mountain's  brow 
Stands  the  temple  of  the  Sun  ; 
Built  of  marble  white  as  snow, 
With  roof  of  gold  which  casts  a  glow 
Adown  the  valleys, — where  the  slow 
And  murrn'ringr  brooklets  run. 


56  THE  BRIDE    OF   THE  SUN. 

There  the  white-robed  priests  and  vestals 
Watch  and  tend  the  sacred  fire  ;— 
Vowed  to  constant  chastity, — 
Pure  and  spotless  must  she  be, — 
Nor  stain  on  her  virginity, — • 
Who  tempts  the  Sun-god's  ire. 

'Twas  an  Autumn  eve  ;  the  Sun 
Sinking  veiled  his  burnished  crest, 
Yet  still  loth  to  quit  the  scene, 
Touched  the  clouds  with  beauteous  colors, 
Marking  thus  his  place  of  rest ; — 
Gold  and  crimson,  silver,  ruby, 
Diamond,  pearl,  and  emerald  glistened 
Round  the  gateways  cf  the  West. 

'Twas  the  season  which  the  red  man 
Loves  to  call  his  "  Indian  Summer  ;  " 
When  no  harsh  sound  mars  the  music 
Of  the  forest  brook's  low  murmur  ; 
When  the  humming-bird  and  bee, 
Singing,  roam  from  flower  to  flower  ; 
When  the  squirrel  blithely  chattering 
Gaily  leaps  from  tree  to  tree  ; 
When  the  rabbit,  homeward  pattering, 
Softly  seeks  her  mossy  bower. 
When  'midst  leafy  flags  and  rushes 
By  the  still  lake,  rests  the  deer  ; 


THE  BRIDE   OF   THE  SUN.  S7 

When  the  drumming  of  the  partridge 
Muffled  booms  upon  the  ear  ; 
When  through  purplish  haze,  the  summits 
Of  the  snow-capped  hills  keep  ward  ; 
When  the  pine-trees  on  the  inclines 
Stand  like  sentinels  on  guard  ; 
When  the  stork  in  marshy  meadows, 
Wrapped  in  meditation,  seems 
Musing  on  the  phantom  shadows, 
Settling  o'er  a  land  of  dreams  ! 

Out  at  sea,  the  glassy  deep 
Shadows  back  the  varied  sky, 
The  gulls  enfolded  pinions  sleep, 
And  hushed  the  stormy-petrel's  cry  ; 
Now  the  calm  moon  rising  slowly 
Sheds  a  silv'ry  flood  of  light, 
And  the  bright  stars  bending  lowly 
Chase  the  gathering  shades  of  night. 

In  a  garden  near  the  palace, 
Leaning  'gainst  a  marble  fountain  ; 
Toying  with  the  perfumed  water, — 
Gazing  upward  to  the  mountain 
And  the  temple  on  its  height- 
Half  hidden  by  the  shades  of  night ; 
Wrapped  in  dreamy  meditation, 
Stood  the  monarch's  lovely  daughter — 
Aimee, — beautiful  and  bright. 


$8  THE  BRIDE    OF    THE   SUN. 

She  was  youthful,  fair  and  tender, 
Lithe  and  graceful,  tall  and  slender  ; 
Hair  of  gold  and  eyes  of  azure, 
Rose-bud  mouth,  with  teeth  of  pearl  ; 
Voice  whose  music  sham'd  to  silence 
All  the  songsters  of  the  wild-wood  ; 
Step  so  springing,  light  and  airy 
That  she  seemed  some  mountain  fairy, 
Or  bright  an-gel,  pure  and  good. 

Skilled  was  she  in  all  the  learning, 
Art  and  science,  wit,  discerning 
Thought,  which  graced  the  learned  sages, 
And  adorned  the  lettered  pages 
Of  the  countless  books  and  tomes, 
Embellishing  the  halls  and  homes 
Of  this  people,  learned  and  noble, 
Untold  centuries  ago. 

Famed  her  beauty.     Far  to  northward, 

Where  Aurora's  rainbow  colors 

Gild  ice-pinnacle  and  snow  ; 

Far  to  south  where  Oronoco 

Smiles  in  beauty,  and  the  stately 

Amazonian  waters  flow. 

Far  to  east  where  broad  Atlantic 

Rushes  on  with  sullen  roar  ; 

Far  to  west  where  mild  Pacific 

Smiling  laps  the  verdant  shore. 


THE  BRIDE    OF   THE  SUN.  59 

Statesmen,  scholars,  learned  and  noble, 
Humbly  sued  the  lady's  hand  ; 
Kings  paid  homage  to  her  beauty, 
Princes  waited  her  command  : 
Yet  she  scorned  them  in  their  power, 
And  still  spurned  them  in  their  pride  ; 
Hurtled  harmless  shafts  of  Cupid, 
Hapless — each  fond  lover  sighed. 

Now  the  maiden,  musing,  dreaming, 
Watches  still  the  marble  temple, 
From  whose  glistening  roof  of  gold 
The  shades  of  night  are  backward  roll'd 
By  the  Day-god's  latest  beaming. 

On  the  morrow  she  forsakes, 
(Thus  the  oracles  decide,) 
Parents,  lovers,  friends  and  flowers, 
Music,  painting,  books  and  bowers  ; 
Perfumed  fountains,  smiling  lakes, 
Whispering  trees  and  silv'ry  tide  ; 
Clad  in  virgin  purity, 
Vowed  to  life-long  chastity, 
There  henceforth  her  home  must  be, 
The  Sun-god's  princess  bride. 

Slowly  turning  to  the  West, 
Where  the  day's  departing  splendor 
Lights  and  shadows,  soft  and  tender, 
Mark  his  passage  into  rest ; 


6O  THE  BRIDE    OF    THE   SUN. 

Sang  she  in  the  twilight  glow, 
While  the  shadows  hastened  on, 
Sad  and  sweet,  and  soft,  and  low, 
The  vestal's  evening'  orison. 


SONG. 

Sinking  slowly  to  thy  rest, 
Source  of  life  and  light  and  heat  ; 
Gilded  clouds  within  the  west, 
Mark  the  passage  of  thy  feet. 

Hear  the  vow  I  make  to  thee, 
Vow  of  constant  chastity. 

Waning  low  from  mortal  ken, 
Still  thine  influence  we  feel ; 
Summer  glads  the  hearts  of  men, 
Zephyrs  soft,  o'er  valleys  steal. 

Hear  the  vow  I  make  to  thee, 
Vow  of  constant  chastity. 

Far  above  the  city's  hum 
Rests  thy  temple  on  the  steep  ; 
There  thy  vestal  maidens  roam, 
There  thy  priests  their  vigils  keep. 
Hear  the  vow  I  make  to  thee, 
Vow  of  constant  chastity. 


THE  BRIDE    OF   THE  SUN.  6 1 

There  they  tend  the  sacred  fire, 
Kindled  by  thy  burning  ray  ; 
Safeguard  'gainst  thy  dreaded  ire, 
Earnest  of  succeeding  day. 

Hear  the  vow  I  make  to  thee, 

Vow  of  constant  chastity. 

Hear  my  vow,  O  God  of  might  ! 

Hear  !  O  hear  me  ere  thou  go  ! 

By  the  bright  star's  softened  light, 

Neath  the  pale  moon's  misty  glow- 
Hear  the  vow  I  make  to  thee, 
Vow  of  constant  chastity. 


The  maiden  paused.     A  silence  fell 
O'er  leafy  bower  and  woody  dell  ; 
While  faded  slowly  from  the  sight, 
The  last  faint  beams  of  Western  light. 
No  sound  doth  break  the  stillness,  save 
The  rippling  of  the  fountain  wave  ; 
The  cooing  of  the  turtle-dove 
Within  the  leafy  orange  grove  ; 
The  cricket's  chirp,  the  night-hawk's  call, 
The  hum  of  distant  waterfall. 

But  hark  !  from  out  the  orange  grove, 
Where  cooing  turtles  whisper  love, 


62  THE  BPIDE    OF   THE  Sf/jV. 

A  sound  to  maiden  sweeter  far, — 
The  tinkling  of  a  light  guitar  : 
Whilst  words  of  love,  so  sweet  and  clear, 
Salute  the  lady's  list'ning  ear. 


SONG. 

Maiden,  thou  art  pure  and  bright, 
Thou  art  lovely  to  the  sight — 
Thou  hast  wisdom,  wit  and  wealth, 
Thou  hast  youth,  and  thou  hast  health. 

Wherefore,  lady,  should'st  thou  be 

Lost  to  love,  and  lost  to  me  ? 

Maiden  hear  !     O  hear  me  now  ! 

Ere  too  late  retract  thy  vow  ! 

Wherefore,  maiden,  should'st  remain 
Immured  amongst  the  vestal  train  ? 
Wherefore  tend  the  sacred  fire  ? 
Or  appease  the  Day-god's  ire  ? 

Wherefore,  lady,  should'st  thou  be 

Lost  to  love,  and  lost  to  me  ? 

Maiden  hear  !     O  hear  me  now  ! 

Ere  too  late  retract  thy  vow  ! 

Thou  art  wise  and  thou  art  royal, 
Thou  hast  countless  lovers  loyal. 


THE  BRIDE   OF   THE  SUN.  63 

Wherefore  should  decree  of  fate 
Crush  thy  life  beneath  its  weight  ? 

Wherefore,  lady,  should'st  thou  be 

Lost  to  love,  and  lost  to  me  ? 

Maiden  hear  !  O  hear  me  now  ! 

Ere  too  late  retract  thy  vow  ! 


The  music  ceased,  the  lady  stood, 
Breathless,  as  one  amazed  ; 
Her  eyes  still  fastened  on  the  wood, 
Her  right  hand  slightly  raised  ; 
Her  foot  half  poised,  as  if  for  flight, 
She  seemed  some  vision  of  the  night, 
Or  angel  down  from  Heaven  flown, 
Or  nymph,  or  naiad,  carved  in  stone. 
Again  the  player  swept  the  strings, 
Again  he  raised  his  voice  in  love, 
Again  with  hope  renewed  he  sings, 
And  seeks  the  maiden's  heart  to  move  ; 
Again  the  lady  bends  to  hear 
Love's  whispers  from  the  orange  grove. 

SONG. 

Fair  lady  !  soft  zephyrs  still  murmur  thy  name, 
The  night-winds  thy  virtues  and  beauty  proclaim. 
The  nightingale  whispers  thy  praise  to  the  rose, 
And  the  rivulet  echoes  the  sound  as  it  flows. 


64  THE  BRIDE    OF   THE  SUN. 

I  have  heard  of  thy  fame  in  my  far  island  home, 
And  to  woo  thee,  and  win  thee,  Gonzalvo  is  come. 

I  have  silks  from  the  loom,  I  have  gems  from  the 

mine, 

My  banquet  is  spread  with  the  costliest  wine  : 
I  have  deer  in  the  forest,  and  fish  in  the  deep ; 
I  have  fountains  and  songsters  to  lull  thee  to  sleep. 
I  have  navies  on  ocean,  and  armies  on  land, 
While  numberless  slaves  but  await  my  command. 

I  have  maidens  so  lovely  that,  'twere  not  for  thee, 
They  were  rivaled  alone  by  the  nymphs  of  the  sea  ; 
I  have  flowers  so  rich,  and  so  varied  in  dye, 
That  they  shame  the  bright  tints  of  the  many-hued 

sky — 

I  have  gardens  and  orchards  abounding  with  fruit, 
Where  the  thrush   and  the  mocking-bird  never  are 

mute. 

The  zephyrs  come  laden  with  sweetest  perfume  ; 
The  peach  tree  and  orange  are  bursting  in  bloom  ; 
The  beams  of  the  Day-god  now  ravish  the  sight, 
The  silver  moon  softens  the  dark  brow  of  night  ; 
The  stars  lend  their  radiance,  old  ocean's  deep  dye 
Reflects  the  rich  shades  of  the  midsummer  sky. 

There  are  fauns  on  the   mountain,  and  nymphs  in 

the  dell  ; 
The  gnome  of  the  fountain  still  weaveth  his  spell ; 


THE  BRIDE   OF   THE  SUN.  65 

The  brownie  still  roameth  the  forest  so  lone, 
The  home  of  the  fay  is  my  far  island  home  ; 
The  faeries  all  waiting,  stand  grouped  on  the  green  ; 
They    stay    but   thy   coming,  they    wait    for   their 
queen  ! 

My  bark  is  in  waiting,  the  night-wind  so  free, 

Still  ripples  the  brow  of  the  dark  purple  sea  ; 

My  sailors  impatiently  fondle  the  oar, 

And  eagerly  watch  my  return  to  the  shore  ; 

My  boat,  and  my  bark,  and  the  night-wind  so  free, 

All  stay  for  thy  coming,  they  wait  but  for  thee. 

My  steed  stands  impatient,  and  swift  as  the  wind, 
We'll  mock  all  pursuit  and  leave  danger  behind  ; 
My  ship  spreads  her  pinions,  and  true  to  the  wheel, 
Still  spurns  the  bright  wave  from  her  swift  fleeting 

keel. 

All  stay  for  thy  coming,  they  wait  but  for  thee  ; 
Then  fly  with  me,  maid,  to  mine  isle  of  the  sea. 


Now  the  pale  moon  bending  lowly, 

Sinks  beneath  the  horizon  ; 
Now  the  bright  stars  fading  slowly, 

Quench  their  lustre  one  by  one. 
Now  the  first  glad  beams  of  morning, 

Brightly  gild  the  western  surge  ; 
Now  the  Sun-god,  red  and  lurid, 

Gleams  above  the  eastern  verge. 


66  THE  BRIDE    OF   THE  SUN. 

From  each  battlement  and  rampart, 

Decked  as  for  a  holiday, 
Pennons  bright,  and  banners  royal, 

Floating  meet  the  morning  ray. 
From  each  war- ship  in  the  harbor, 

From  each  turret  on  the  shore, 
Ring  forth  strains  of  martial  music, 

Bursts  the  cannons'  deafening  roar. 

Every  voice  in  exultation, 

Swelleth  high  the  glad  acclaim, 
Till  each  mountain  cleft  and  valley, 

Echoes  naught  but  Aimee's  name. 
Ev'ry  pennon,  ev'ry  banner, 

Martial  strain  and  brazen  gun, 
All  proclaim  the  royal  bridal, 

And  the  triumph  of  the  Sun  ! 

Lo  !  adown  the  m'ountain  steep, 
Where  a  vast  procession  moves, 
Priests  and  vestals  slowly  wending, 
Downward  still  their  steps  are  bending  ; 
Down  through  verdant  woods  and  forests, 
Down  through  fragrant  orange  groves. 
Hark  !     The  priests  in  joyous  measure, 
Loudly  chant  their  matin  strain  ; 
Hark  !     The  white- robed  vestal  Choral 
Echoes  back  the  glad  refrain. 


THE  BRIDE    OF   THE  SUN.  6/ 

HYMN. 

We  hail  thee,  we  hail  thee,  bright  god  of  the  day, 
Our  vows  and  our  homage  now  humbly  we  pay  ; 
We  praise  thee,  we  praise  thee,  for  heat   and   for 

light, 
We  praise  thee  for  chasing  the  dark  shades  of  night. 

We  praise  thee  for  life,  and  we  praise  thee  for  health, 
We  praise  thee  for  wisdom,  we  praise  thee  for  wealth  ; 
We  praise  thee  in  waking,  we  praise  thee  for  sleep, 
We  praise  thee  that  safely  thy  servants  did  keep. 

We  praise  thee  for  wheat,  and  we  praise  thee  for 

wine, 

For  the  pearl  of  the  ocean,  the  gem  of  the  mine  ; 
We  praise  thee  for  corn  we  so  joyfully  reap, 
For  the  deer  in  the  forest,  the  fish  in  the  deep. 

We  praise  thee  for  valley,  we  praise  thee  for  moun 
tain  ; 

We  praise  thee  for  brooklet,  we  praise  thee  for 
fountain  ; 

We  praise  thee  for  ocean,  we  praise  thee  for  earth  ; 

We  praise  thee  for  death  as  we  praise  thee  for 
birth  ! 

We  praise  thee,  we  praise  thee,  for  all  that  we  have, 
Be  it  beast  from  the  forest,  or  fish  from  the  wave  ; 
Be  it  wheat  from  the  harvest,  or  gem  from  the  mine, 
We  praise  thee,  we  praise  thee,  oh,  Day-god  divine  ! 


68  THE  BRIDE    OF   THE  SUN. 

They  cease  ;  and  lo  !  on  either  side, 
The  people  backward  pressed 
By  mailed  guards,  who  open  wide 
A  pathway  for  the  Sun-god's  bride, 
For  vestal  and  for  priest. 

But  hark  !     From  out  the  palace  gate 

Echoes  a  cry  of  dread  ! 

A  cry  so  sad  and  desolate, 

That  priests  and  vestals  pausing  wait 

The  meaning  of  such  anguish  great, 

A  wail  as  for  the  dead  ! 


'Tis  true  !     The  Sun's  bride  from  the  palace  is  gone. 
The  Day-god  is  mocked  and  her  father  undone  ; 
The  valleys  that  knew  her  shall  know  her  no  more  ; 
And  the  mountain-breeze  seeks  her  in  vain  on  the 

shore. 

O'er  the  bright  smiling  waters,  Gonzalvo  doth  roam, 
And  bears  his  fair  bride  to  his  far  island  home. 
The  Day-god  played  blindly,  bold  Cupid  has  won, 
And  the  Corsair  hath  stolen  the  bride  of  the  Sun. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  NIGHT- 
WIND. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  NIGHT-WIND. 

A   CHRISTMAS   TALE. 

I. 

THE  sun  hath  set  on  the  city's  hive, 
And  gloomily  falls  the  Christmas  eve. 

The  night-wind,  laden  with  snow  and  sleet, 
Hurries  along  the  deserted  street ; 

In  a  church-yard  nigh  he  wildly  raves, 
And  moans  above  the  silent  graves  ; 

Among  the  branches  he  sadly  grieves, 
And  whirls  aloft  the  withered  leaves  ; 

He  clanks  the  tomb-chains,  stiff  with  rust, 
And  shrieks  aloud  like  a  spirit  lost  ; 

Anon  he  mounts  the  gloomy  stair, 
Which  leads  to  the  bell-loft  cold  and  bare  ; 

He  wakes  the  echoes  which  haunt  the  tower, 
And  mingles  them  with  his  sullen  roar  ; 

He  grasps  the  bell-rope  dangling  near, 
And  makes  the  great  bell  moan  with  fear  ; 


72  THE   QUEST  OF   THE  NIGHT-WIND. 

He  peers  thro'  the  casements,  white  with  snow, 
And  hurls  defiance  at  all  below , 

Anon,  descending,  he  wends  his  way 

To  the  wharves  and  docks  of  the  silent  bay  ; 

He  searches  amid  the  scatter'd  bales, 
And  tosses  the  heaps  of  mouldy  sails  ; 

Now  mounts  to  the  cross-tree  high  in  air, — 
Now  whistles,  and  shrieks  thro'  the  cordage  bare  ; 

Again  descending,  his  search  in  vain, 
He  moans  and  wails  like  one  in  pain  ; 

Again  he  plies  his  anxious  quest 
Like  a  very  demon  of  sad  unrest. 

Why  is  the  night-wind's  spirit  cross'd  ? 
What  is  the  treasure  the  wind  hath  lost  ? 

II. 

A  gloomy  arch  by  the  river's  side, 
Just  above  the  encroaching  tide  ; 

Some  tatter'd  garments,  a  whisp  of  straw, 
To  shield  from  the  night-wind  cold  and  raw  ; 

A  human  form  is  lying  there, 

A  girlish  figure  with  golden  hair  ; 

Where  prowling  vermin  softly  creep, 
A  girlish  figure  wrapt  in  sleep  ; 

Where  the  slimy  waters  come  and  go, 
A  child  of  misery,  want  and  woe. 


THE   QUEST  OF   THE  NIGHT-WIND.  73 

A  wretched  waif  from  the  crowded  street, 
Hiding  away  in  this  lone  retreat  ; 

A  worthless  wild-flower,  touched  with  blight, 
Drooping  apart  in  the  gloomy  night  ; 

With  garments  tattered,  and  limbs  half  bare, 
But  a  wondrous  wealth  of  golden  hair  ; 

With  features  pinched,  and  pale,  and  wan, 
Yet  a  lovely  face  to  gaze  upon. 

Her  yellow  locks,  in  a  wavy  tide, 
Dispose  themselves  on  either  side  ; 

From  the  sleeping  features  backward  roll'd, — • 
An  angel  face  in  a  frame  of  gold  ! 

Where  poisonous  vapors  nightly  sweep, 
A  child  of  misery — lost  in  sleep. 

Sleep, — that  cometh  alike  to  all, 
In  lowly  cottage,  or  stately  hall  ; 

Yet  will  often  fly  from  a  royal  bed 
To  keep  his  tryst  in  the  beggar's  shed. 

Sleep, — that  drieth  the  widow's  tears, 
Sleep,  —  that  quelleth  the  orphan's  fears  ; 

Sleep, — that  steepeth  the  soul  in  lethe, 
Sleep, — twin  brother,  and  type  of  death. 

III. 

The  play  is  ended.     A  sudden  glow 
Streams  thro'  the  door  on  the  drifted  snow  ; 
4 


74  THE   QUEST   OF   THE   NIGHT-WIND. 

<S 

A  panel'd  carriage  is  standing  nigh, 
And  servants  in  gorgeous  livery  ; 

A  daughter  of  fashion,  proud  and  fair, 
In  costly  raiment  and  jewels  rare  ; 

One  of  the  drones  who  rule  the  earth 
Thro'  freak  of  fortune  or  chance  of  birth  ; 

One  of  the  favored  who  do  not  know 
The  meaning  of  "  misery,  want  and  woe." 

One  of  those  moths  of  the  upper  air, 
Of  roseate  clouds  and  zephyrs  fair  ; 

Who  sail  along  o'er  summer  seas, 
With  naught  to  mar  luxurious  ease  ; 

'Midst  the  flowers  of  life,  who  bask  and  play, 
And  sip  their  nectar  from  day  to  day  ; 

But  knowing  nothing  of  tempests  dread, 
Of  storm-clouds  dark,  and  skies  of  lead  ; 

But  knowing  nothing  of  rocks  beneath, 
Nor  of  quicksands  ending  in  dismal  death  ; 

Nor  of  cruel  serpents  coiled  below 
The  flowers  of  life  that  charm  them  so. 

Creatures  who  live  high  overhead 
The  cry  of  the  hungry  for  daily  bread  ; 

And  if,  by  chance,  they  should  hear  that  cry, 
Would  esteem  it  a  fiction,  and  pass  it  by. 


THE   QUEST  OF    THE  NIGHT-WIND.  75 

No  mortal,  ever,  when  filled  with  bread, 
Hath  power  to  compass  his  fellow's  need  ; 

Nor  one  who  basks  on  the  height  of  joy 
To  fathom  the  vale  of  misery  ; 

I  doubt  if  the  saints  who  in  heaven  dwell, 
Know  aught  of  the  anguish  that  reigns  in  hell. 

"  Only  a  penny  to  buy  some  bread  !  " 
She  hears  the  cry,  but  she  will  not  heed  ; 

Half  in  wonder  and  half  in  fear, 

She  pauses  a  moment  that  cry  to  hear  ; 

Then  sweeps  away  in  her  jewel'd  pride, 
With  her  liveried  servants  on  either  side. 

IV. 

In  a  stately  mansion  of  costly  stone, 
The  lady  reclines  on  a  couch  of  down  ; 

Surrounded  by  every  luxury 

That  wealth  may  grant  or  want  deny  ; 

Yet  wearily  tossing  from  side  to  side, 
Still  craving  a  boon — which  is  still  denied. 

"Vainly  craving  the  boon  of  sleep, 

,  Which  comes  unask'd  to  the  dungeon  keep  ; 

Which  comes  unask'd  to  the  weary  one 
,  Who  hath  toil'd  from  morn  till  the  setting  sun  ; 

Which  comes  unask'd  to  the  tented  field 
And  with  visions  of  peace  each  heart  is  filled  ; 


76  THE   QUEST  OF   THE  NIGHT-WIND. 

As  the  soldier  dreams  of  his  parents  gray, 
Of  the  early  scenes  of  his  boyhood's  play  ; 

Of  the  maiden  he  loves,  with  sunny  smile, 
Who  awaits  him  now  by  the  well-known  stile. 

In  dreams,  he  quickens  his  anxious  pace, — 
Now  folds  her  close  in  his  fond  embrace, 

And  rains  on  her  lips  the  kisses  sweet, 

With  which  lovers  are  wont  true  love  to  greet. 

In  dreams,  they  now  at  the  altar  stand, 
Pledge  heart  to  heart,  and  hand  to  hand  ; 

In  dreams,  he  hears  upon  every  side, 
Loud  praises  paid  to  his  lovely  bride  ; 

And  feels  his  heart  with  rapture  bound 
To  the  joyous  swell  of  the  organ's  sound  : 

Then  wakens  to  find  that  the  night  is  gone, 
And  a  warning  blast  on  the  wind  is  borne  ; 

To  hear  the  roll  of  the  warlike  drum, 
And    the    cry — "THE   FOE!     To    ARMS!     THEY 
COME ! " 

Then  hurriedly  rising  hastes  away 
To  join  in  the  din  of  the  deadly  fray  ; 

To  exchange  his  vision  of  kisses  sweet 
For  the  fierce  embraces  a  foeman  greet ; 

To  exchange  his  raptures  of  marriage  bed 
For  the  lonely  couch  of  the  gory  dead  ! 


THE   QUEST  OF   THE  NIGHT-WIND.  77 

And  the  maid  he  loved  to  the  stile  will  come, 
Vainly  to  look  for  her  warrior  home  ; 

But  at  last — awaked  by  the  tidings  rude, 
Will  weep  in  her  widow'd  maidenhood. 

Ah  !     The  life  of  our  dreams  is  fair  and  gay, 
But  nightmare  horrors  infest  the  day  ; 

Thrice  happy  is  he  who  the  night  redeems, 
Who  forgets  the  day,  and  lives  only  in  dreams  ! 

V. 

"  GLORY  TO  GOD — GOOD  WILL  TO  MEN  !  " 
The  streets  re-echo  the  glad  refrain  ; 

With  joyous  clangor,  loud  and  clear, 
The  bells  peal  forth  on  the  midnight  air ; 

Telling  of  One  in  the  long  ago, 

Who  was  born  to  a  life  of  want  and  woe. 

Telling  of  One  whose  birth  was  mean, 
And  His  only  heritage  grief  and  pain ; 

Who  gave  unto  man  His  latest  breath, 
And  sealed  His  life  with  a  cruel  death. 

The  lady  hears,  and  she  lifts  on  high, 
Her  arms  in  a  sudden  agony  ; 

As  memory  wakes  with  the  clanging  bells, 
And  conscience  its  fearful  errand  tells  ; 

For  standing  nigh  in  the  twilight  gray, 
Is  a  sight  she  fain  would  hide  away  ! 


78  THE  QUEST  OF   THE  NIGHT-WIND. 

Standing  nigh  in  the  twilight  cold, 
A  girlish  figure  with  locks  of  gold  ; 

With  features  pinched,  and  pale,  and  wan, 
'Tis  a  mournful  sight  to  gaze  upon  ; 

With  the  sunken  cheek,  and  the  hollow  eye, 
Which  tell  of  want  and  misery  ; 

But  the  light  of  life  from  the  eye  is  fled, 
And  its  gaze  is  the  stony  gaze  of  the  dead  ! 

The  slanting  beams  thro'  the  casement  shine, 
And  fall  on  the  coverlid  line  on  line  : 

Fall  through  the  phantom  standing  there, — • 
Mortality's  semblance — wrought  in  air  ; 

And  she  knows  full  well  with  a  terrible  dread, 
'Tis  no  earthly  creature  that  guards  her  bed. 

Nearer  and  nearer,  she  sees  it  come, 

And  she  fain  would  shriek,  but  her  voice  is  dumb  ; 

Nearer  and  nearer,  with  noiseless  glide, 
'Till  the  spectre  stands  by  the  lady's  side. 

Now  her  arm  is  seized  in  an  icy  grip, 
And  words  are  framed  by  the  pallid  lip  ; 

And  her  very  heart  seems  turned  to  stone, 
At  the  sound  of  that  ghostly  monotone  ; 

As  in  mournful  cadence  it  sinks  and  swells, 
With  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  chiming  bells  ; 


THE   QUEST  OF   THE  NIGHT- WIND.  /9 

With  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  carols  sweet, 
Echoing  back  from  the  distant  street. 

VI. 

"  Lady  !     Thy  life  hath  been  fair  from  birth, 
But  I  in  misery  trod  the  earth  ; 

"Thy  taste  hath  been  sated  with  every  good, 
But  I  have  pined  for  lack  of  food  ; 

"  Thou  hast  slept  at  night  in  a  lordly  bed, 
When  I  knew  not  the  where  to  lay  my  head  ; 

"  Thou  hast  covered  thyself  with  a  royal  dress, 
When  I  starved  in  rags  and  nakedness  ; 

"  To  pleasures  and  flattery  thou  wert  born, 
I  to  privation,  pain,  and  scorn  ; 

"  Thou  to  be  praised,  caress'd,  and  blest, 
I  to  be  beaten,  and  wrong'd,  and  curst  ! 

"  Lady  !  my  lot  hath  been  to  thine 
As  worthless  water  to  priceless  wine  ; 

"  As  the  dire  despair  of  the  doomed  in  woe, 

To  the  rapturous  peace  which  the  ransomed  know ; 

"  As  the  gloom  and  shadow  of  blackest  night, 
To  effulgent  splendors  of  noonday  light  ; 

"  Thy  lot  to  mine,  as  the  joys  that  dwell 
In  Heaven  above — to  the  pains  of  Hell ! 

"  We  met  by  chance  but  yesternight, 

When  the  storm-wind  blew  and  the  snow  lay  white  ; 


80  THE   QUEST  OF   THE  NIGHT-WIND. 

"When  I  humbly  sued  for  a  morsel  of  bread, 
And  you  turned  away  with  scornful  tread  ; 

"  You  turned  away  to  your  carriage  nigh, 
I  to  the  street  and  the  wintry  sky  ; 

"  You  to  your  home  of  wealth  and  pride, 
I  to  the  arch  by  the  river's  side  ; 

"  You  to  a  couch  of  softest  down, 
I  to  the  snow-drift,  cold  and  lone  ! 

"  Lady  !     The  God  who  cares  for  all, 

And  marks,  not  unmov'd^  e'en  a  sparrow  fall  ; 

"  Will  surely  judge  between  thee  and  me, — 
My  need,  and  thy  prosperity  ! 

"  For  know  this  truth — that  all  things  of  worth 
Are  but  talents  lent  by  the  Lord  of  earth  ; 

"  And  none  may  treasure  them  as  his  own, 
For  even  the  least  to  the  Lord  is  known  ; 

"  And  He  will  repay  the  selfish  pride, 
Which — out  of  affluence — want  denied  !  " 

VII. 

Now  merrily  wakes  the  Christmas  morn, 
And  joyous  sounds  on  the  wind  are  borne  ; 

As  the  bells  peal  forth  to  the  list'ning  air, 
And  summon  the  people  to  praise  and  prayer  ; 

While  far  and  near  each  echoing  street 
Resounds  to  the  tread  of  hurrying  feet. 


THE   QUEST  OF   THE  NIGHT-WIND.  8 1 

They  resound  to  the  tread  of  those  who  pay 
Their  vows  to  Him  who  was  born  to-day  ; 

They  resound  to  the  tread  of  the  proud  who  come 
To  baw  at  the  name  of  the  lowly  One  ; 

In  costly  raiment,  with  stately  mien, 
To  worship  the  humble  Nazarene  ; 

Forgetting,  alas  !  in  their  selfish  pride, 
That  by  them  is  He  daily  crucified. 

For — are  not  the  poor  with  us  to-day, 
Successors  of  Him  who  hath  pass'd  away  ? 

And  the  burden  they  bear  of  grief  and  scorn, 
The  same  the  crucified  One  hath  borne  ? 

Their  lot  of  suffering,  shame,  and  death, 
The  same  that  was  meted  to  Him  on  earth  ? 

And  these  countless  churches  of  costly  stone, 
We  build  to  the  name  of  that  lowly  One  ; 

Garnished  without,  and  bright  within, 
With  storied  casement  and  golden  sheen  ; 

While  under  their  shadows  nightly  lie 

The  wretched,  who  hunger  for  sympathy  : — 

While  under  their  shadows  the  homeless  brood, 
And  thousands  perish  for  lack  of  food  ! 

I  ask, — is  not  each  a  gilded  lie, — 
A  sort  of  religious  mockery  ? 


82  THE  QUEST  OF   THE  NIGHT-WIND. 

Like  scenes  which  the  desert  lost  deride, 
Or  the  empty  feast  of  the  Barmacide  ; 

Or  those  apples  of  Sodom  which  tempt  the  eye, 
But  are  filled  with  dust  and  vanity. 

For  the  starving  wretch,  in  the  twilight  dim, 
Will  wondering  dream  of  the  wealth  within  ; 

And  vainly  ponder  the  reason  why 
Homeless  and  hungry,  he  must  die, — 

When  less  than  a  tithe  of  that  wealth  would  bring 
Joy — to  the  many  suffering. 

Ah  !  would  to  God  we  had  less  of  pride, 
And  more  of  the  heart  of  Him  who  died  ! 

Were  it  not  better  to  feed  the  poor, 
Than  paint  a  window  or  carve  a  door  ? 

Better  to  shelter  the  homeless  one, 

Than  build  to  the  Lord  a  church  of  stone  ? 

I  fear,  these  fanes  to  the  Crucified 

Are  but  monuments  reared  unto  human  pride  ! 

VIII. 

In  the  lady's  chamber,  twilights  gray 
Proclaim  the  approach  of  the  god  of  day  ; 

And  anon  the  twilights,  pale  and  cold, 
Are  chased  by  the  fairy  sunbeams  bold  ; 

All  sturdy  warriors,  tried  and  true, 

They  mount  to  the  casement  and  clamber  through. 


THE   QUEST  OF   THE  NIGHT-WIND.  83 

Blithe  and  bold  are  they  I  ween 

As  ever  the  knights  of  earth  were  seen  ; 

All  armed  are  they  with  swords  of  light, 
And  in  armor  of  burnished  gold  bedight ; 

As  along  the  carpet  they  softly  glide, 
Till  they  flank  the  couch  upon  either  side. 

Now  their  leader  bold  to  the  coverlid  trips, 
And  snatches  a  kiss  from  the  sleeper's  lips  : 

Kisses  her  lips  till  she  moans  with  pain, 
Then  lightly  leaps  to  the  floor  again  ; 

Now  he  marshals  his  forces  blithe  and  gay, 
And  they  mount  to  the  casement  and  hie  away. 

The  lady  awakes  with  a  moan  of  pain, 
And  presses  her  hands  to  her  aching  brain  ; 

As  memory  tells  of  the  night-wind  cold, 
Of  a  girlish  figure  with  locks  of  gold  ; 

Of  tremulous  lips  which  vainly  prayed 
For  a  penny  wherewith  to  purchase  bread. 

And  yet  again  stern  memory  tells 
Of  midnight  carols  and  chiming  bells  ; 

Of  the  ghostly  message,  and  glassy  stare, 
Of  a  phantom  figure  wrought  in  air  ; 

Ah  !  so  terribly  real  'twould  surely  seem 

It  must  have  been  more  than  a  passing  dream  ; 


84  THE   QUEST  OF   THE  NIGHT-WIND. 

And  never  shall  peace  her  mind  attain 
Till  that  fearful  phantom  is  laid  again. 

IX. 

Now  hurriedly  robing,  the  lady  fair, 
Must  brave  the  chill  of  the  morning  air  ; 

As  she  hastens  away  o'er  the  city  wide,' 
And  gains  the  arch  by  the  river's  side  ; 

The  gloomy  arch  where  the  homeless  sleep, 
Where  the  wretched  moan  and  the  friendless  weep  ; 

Where  society's  outcasts  nightly  lie, 
And  bury  their  shame  and  their  misery  : 

Where  poisonous  vapors  oppress  the  breath, 
And  the  air  is  rank  with  che  seeds  of  death. 

But  all  too  late  is  succor  come, 

For  at  last  the  wretched  hath  found  a  home  ; 

A  haven  of  rest  for  the  weary  one, 

Where  sorrow  and  surf  ring  are  all  unknown  ; 

From  the  gloomy  arch,  and  the  wintry  night, 
The  homeless  hath  entered  the  realms  of  light. 

Now  all  in  vain  shall  the  lady  seek 
Health  to  restore  to  that  frozen  cheek  ; 

Aye,  all  in  vain  may  she  tax  her  art 

To  awaken  the  pulse  of  that  lifeless  heart ; 

In  vain  from  those  pallid  lips  to  win 
Forgiveness  now  for  her  cruel  sin  ; 


THE   QUEST   OF   THE  NIGHT-WIND.  85 

And  in  vain  shall  the  Night-wind  ply  his  quest, 
Since  the  maiden  he  loved  hath  gone  to  rest. 

'Twas  he  who  fondly  lingered  near, 
In  that  last  dread  hour  of  mortal  fear  ; 

'Twas  he  who  wove  her  a  snowy  vest, 

And  folded  her  hands  on  her  peaceful  breast ; 

Then  shook  out  her  hair  in  many  a  fold, 
Till  it  wrapt  her  form  like  a  frame  of  gold, 

And  sadly  left  her  to  roam  the  street, 
To  sing  of  her  beauty  and  wail  her  fate. 

Ah  !  vainly  now  shall  he  seek  his  bride, 
In  the  lonely  arch  by  the  river's  side  ; 

For  the  river  of  death  hath  the  maiden  cross'd, 
And  the  angels  have  found — what  the  wind  hath 
lost! 


THE  PATHS  OF  LIFE. 


THE  PATHS   OF  LIFE. 


I. 
FOR  sober  thought,  'tis  proper  food 

What  goal  in  life  should  be  our  aim, 
What  path  should  by  our  feet  be  trod, 

Or  wealth,  or  joy,  or  power,  or  fame  ! 

The  road  to  wealth  is  passing  straight ; 

The  goal  is — plenty,  friendship,  ease  ; 
The  means — rise  early,  stay  up  late, 

Live  frugally,  and  work  like  bees. 

The  second,  mortals  seldom  find  ; 

And  they  who  think  they  find,  may  miss  ; 
The  means — each  suits  his  several  mind  ; 

The  goal  is — perfect  happiness. 

The  third  and  fourth  lie  side  by  side, 

Along  a  beetling  precipice  ; 
Full  many  men  these  paths  have  tried, 

But  few  attain  the  goal — success. 


90  THE  PATHS   OF  LIFE. 

There  is  a  fifth,  but  seldom  sought — 
It  being  tedious  of  ascent — 

It  leads  within  the  realms  of  thought, 
And  lies  round  a  poetic  bent. 

These  different  paths  mankind  ascend, 
And  each  with  joy  and  pain  is  rife  ; 

All  reach  at  last  one  common  end, — 
They  stop  at  death — the  wall  of  life. 

II. 
The  road  to  wealth  we  glance  at  first, 

And  here  the  startled  critic  sees 
That  they  attain  their  aim  the  best 

Who  creep  along  on  hands  and  knees. 

All  eager  seem  to  reach  the  top, 

But  each  pursues  a  different  course  ; 

One  stays  to  help  a  comrade  up, 
A  thousand,  scoffing,  by  him  pass. 

One  seems  to  be  a  patron's  pet, 
Who,  graciously,  assistance  lends  ; 

Another  lucky  man  is  met, 

And  carried  up  by  troops  of  friends. 

Some  scramble  over  others'  heads, 
And  scruple  not  to  tread  them  down  ; 

One  rudely  strikes  his  fellow  dead, 
Then  makes  his  property  his  own. 


THE  PATHS   OF  LIFE.  91 

Some  seek  to  tunnel  through  the  earth, 

And  some  to  sail  along  the  seas  ; 
One  lucky  fellow  at  his  birth 

Is  landed  midst  the  topmost  trees. 

A  few  attempt,  by  sudden  spring, 

At  once  the  highest  point  to  gain  ; 
Sometimes  one  manages  to  cling, 

But  nearly  all  roll  down  again. 

III. 
For  joy,  some  seek  in  pomp  and  show ; 

Some,  hoarding  heaps  of  yellow  dust  : 
In  friendship  some  ;  a  few  I  know 

In  love,  but  thousands  more  in  lust. 

One  person  seems  his  joy  to  find 

In  tripping  up  his  neighbor's  heels  ; 
Another  still  (to  ease  his  mind), 

To  all,  the  latest  scandal  tells. 

In  eating,  when  they've  had  enough, 

Some  people  seem  to  find  content, 
While  some  wax  merry  drinking  stuff 

Call'd  wine,  which  makes  them  eloquent. 

In  traveling,  one  appears  to  please 
His  taste,  and  soothe  a  restless  mind  ; 

Another  still,  in  idle  ease 

His  solace  chiefly  seems  to  find. 


92  THE  PATHS   OF  LIFE. 

Yon  fellow,  with  the  scarlet-lined 

Surtout  and  military  boots — 
A  sort  of  licensed  butcher — finds 

His  pleasure  cutting  others'  throats. 

Thus  each  pursues  the  bubble  joy, 
But  few,  alas  !  with  much  success  ; 

When  caught,  'tis  mixed  with  base  alloy, 
And  few,  indeed,  find  happiness. 

IV. 

The  roads  to  power  chiefly  lie 

Thro'  burning  towns  and  heaps  of  slain, 
And  trav'lers  usually  rely 

On  ready  hand  and  steady  brain. 

There  may  be  highways,  not  of  blood, 
Which  lead  this  way,  but  they  are  rare  ; 

Not  many  on  the  peak  have  stood, 

Unless  through  gore  they  waded  there. 

Some  few  employ  assassin's  skill, 

And  some  the  poisoned  draught  prepare ; 

While  others,  their  opponents  kill 
To  music,  in  the  open  air. 

The  first  two  mentioned  kinds  of  strife 

Have  fallen  into  disrepute, 
And  he  who  takes  a  single  life 

Is  counted  now  a  savage  brute. 


THE  PATHS   OF  LIFE.  93 


This  is  foul  murder  ;  but  when  fall 
A  million  in  a  single  war — 

Ah  !    That  is  glory  !  We  extol 
The  hero  to  the  highest  star. 

To  fathom  the  philosophy 

Of  this,  I  cannot  make  pretence, 
But  think,  perhaps,  plurality 

And  music  make  the  difference. 


V. 

Full  many  seek  the  path  of  fame — 
This  near  the  road  to  power  lies  ; 

But  very  few  that  path  attain, 
And  fewer  still  attain  the  prize. 

Of  all  the  four,  this  is,  perchance, 
The  steepest,  and  most  like  to  miss ; 

Above,  the  threatening  avalanche  ; 
Below,  the  fathomless  abyss. 

Some' strive  upon  the  field  of  blood 
To  win  themselves  a  lasting  name  ; 

And  some,  by  carving  blocks  of  wood 
And  stone,  to  woo  the  fickle  dame. 

And  one  before  a  canvas  stands 
And  vainly  seeks  thereon  to  trace, 

In  earthly  tints,  with  earthly  hands, 
A  vision  of  celestial  grace. 


94  THE  PATHS   OF  LIFE. 

While  others  trim  their  lamps  with  oil, 

And  study  far  into  the  night. 
Perchance,  but  scarcely,  may  their  toil 

Succeed  ;  they  oftener  sink  from  sight. 

Some  few  attempt,  by  kindly  deed, 
To  make  their  names  forever  burn  ; 

But  those  who  in  the  main  succeed, 
Are  they  who  work  the  greatest  harm. 

VI. 
Now,  fifth  and  last,  our  eyes  we  turn 

To  thought,  and  seek  to  bend  our  sight 
Where,  dimly  mapp'd,  we  scarce  discern 

The  path,  nor  mark  the  rays  of  light 

Which  faintly  gleam.     But  few,  forsooth, 
The  pilgrims  who  this  path  commence,— 

They  lean  upon  the  staff  of  truth, 
And  bear  the  lamp  of  common  sense. 

Before  the  portal,  still  we  find 

Two  hags,  who  firmly  bar  advance  ; 

The  one  is  Superstition — blind  ; 

The  other,  deaf — named  Ignorance. 

The  first  from  all  the  other  roads 

Draws  toll,  but  Reason's  road  is  free  ; 

She,  hearing  travelers,  straightway  goads 
Hag  Ignorance  to  frenzy. 


THE  PATHS   OF  LIFE.  95 

Hag  Superstition  constant  tells 

Of  ghouls,  who  in  this  path  abide, 
And  moans  about  two  ghastly  hells, 

Which  God  hath  placed  on  either  side. 

The  facts  are  these  :  that  all  who  gain 
The  first  few  miles,  proceed  with  ease  ; 

Learn  love  to  God,  good-will  to  men, 
Live  happily,  and  die  in  peace. 

VII. 
Thus  each  one  seeks  a  path  in  life, 

Thus  all  with  tottering  steps  ascend, 
While  sun  and  cloud  alternate  strive 

O'er  all,  until  the  common  end. 

Each  thinks  his  neighbor's  path  with  light 
More  largely  blessed  than  is  his  own, 

And  murmurs  at  the  dismal  height 
Above,  which  he  must  climb  alone. 

Some  mourn  because  another  road 
They  did  not  choose  when  life  begun, 

And  moan  about  the  grievous  load 
They  bear,  while  others  lightly  run. 

At  last,  all  reach  the  dismal  moat 

Call'd  "  Death,"  which  bounds  the  wall  of  life. 
And  here,  there  being  neither  boat 

Nor  bridge,  ensues  a  wordy  strife. 


96"  THE  PATHS   OF  LIFE. 

Each  one  insists,  all  others  lack 

Good  sense,  himself,  by  heaven  taught ; 
One  climbs  upon  his  neighbor's  back, 

Another  tries  the  wings  of  thought. 

And  thus,  alas  !  we  sadly  see 

Much  discord  while  the  way  is  sought ; 
If  any  friends  would  come  with  me, 

I  travel  by  the  line  of  thought. 


THE  VOICELESS   SOUL. 


ONE  morn,  before  the  throne  of  light, 
A  trembling  spirit  veiled  her  sight. 
In  radiant  bands,  on  either  side, 
Her  sister  spirits  smiling  glide  ; 
Each  brow  with  happiness  elate, 
She  only  stands  disconsolate. 


Th'  assembl'd  hosts,  with  one  accord, 
Unite  to  praise  their  Sovereign  Lord  ; 
Each  happy  voice,  with  glad  acclaim, 
Sings  triumphs  to  Jehovah's  name  ; 
Yet  she,  of  all  that  mighty  throng, 
Nor  strikes  the  harp,  nor  joins  the  song. 

They  each  some  precious  off' ring  bring 
As  tribute  to  their  Heav'nly  King  ; 
They  lay  their  gifts-before  the  throne 
And  gladly  their  allegiance  own  ; 
This  spirit  only  mutely  stands 
With  downcast  look,  and  empty  hands. 


100  THE    VOICELESS  SOUL. 

From  out  the  fleecy  clouds  of  light 
Which  veil  His  glory  from  the  sight, 
By  music  sweet  the  air  is  stirr'd, — 
Anon  a  still,  small  voice  is  heard  ; — 
The  silent  hosts  with  one  accord 
Await  the  message  of  their  Lord. 


"  Fair  spirit  !  in  the  realms  of  light, 
Why  veilest  thou  thy  trembling  sight  ? 
While  all  the  hosts  my  praise  proclaim 
Why  failest  thou  to  hymn  my  name  ? 
While  echo  loudly  harp  and  lute, 
Why  thine  alone  so  sadly  mute  ? 


"  Full  threescore  years  thou  trod'st  the  earth 
In  life,  since  first  I  sent  thee  forth  ; 
I  furnished  thee  with  talents  ten, 
And  bade  thee  bring  me  mine  again 
With  usury, — now  wherefore  stand 
With  downcast  look,  and  empty  hand  ? 

"  Still  silent !     What  the  deep  disgrace 
Which  causest  thee  to  hide  thy  face  ? 
Still  silent  !     Where  the  talents  ten, 
And  where  the  gains  I  bid  thee  bring  ? 
Rebellious  spirit  !     Answer  make  ! 
Unveil  thy  face  !  I  bid  thee  speak  !  " 


THE    VOICELESS  SOUL.  IOI 

By  anguish  bow'd,  she  at  the  word 
Obey'd  the  mandate  of  her  Lord  ; 
Unveil'd  her  brow,  where  sorrow's  trace 
Seem'd  still  to  mark  the  heart's  disgrace  ; 
Then  prostrate  fell  before  the  throne, 
And  thus  began  her  plaintive  moan  :  - 


"  Lord  !  truly  didst  thou  send  me  forth 
For  threescore  years  to  tread  the  earth  ; 
Thou  gavest  truly — talents  ten, 
And  bade  me  bring  thee  thine  again 
With  usury  !     O  Lord  !  since  then 
I've  roamed  the  earth  in  speechless  pain  ! 


"  Thou  gavest,  Lord,  an  ample  choice 
Of  treasures  rich,  yet  gave  no  voice  ; 
I  sought  those  treasures  to  impart, 
And  found  them  lock'd  within  my  heart, 
In  ocean's  depths — I  lay  athirst ! 
Midst  plenty — was  by  famine  curs'd  ! 

"  North,  South,  East,  West,  upon  the  earth, 
I've  wander'd  since  thou  sent  me  forth  ; 
My  soul  in  silent  anguish  bow'd, 
A  lonely  wretch  amidst  a  crowd, — 
A  beggar'd  prince,  a  swordless  knight, 
A  blind  man  mourning  for  his  sight ! 


102  THE    VOICELESS  SOUL. 

"  My  heart  with  love  untold  was  fill'd  ; 
My  soul  with  speechless  music  thrill'd  ; 
Amaz'd  with  sound,  my  raptured  ears 
Drank  in  the  music  of  the  spheres  ; 
Where'er  I  turn'd,  some  new  delight 
Disclosed  upon  my  ravish'd  sight ! 


"  I  own'd  thy  grace,  and  pow'r  and  love, 
In  Earth  beneath,  and  Heav'n  above  ; 
I  vainly  sought  thy  praise  to  sing 
And  of  thy  mercies  make  my  theme  ; 
Unblest,  amidst  a  myriad  joys, 
I  speechless  mourn'd,  I  had  no  voice  ! 


"  Thou  gavest,  Lord,  bright  talents  ten, 
Lo  !  here  I  bring  thee  thine  again  ; 
Take  that  is  thine  !     My  bidden  task, 
Tho'  unfulfill'd — I  trembling  ask 
Thy  mercy,  Lord  !     And  humbly  prone 
I  prostrate  lie  before  thy  throne  !  " 


From  out  those  radiant  clouds  of  light 
Which  veil  His  glory,  and  His  might ; 
Again  the  list'ning  air  is  stirr'd  : — • 
Again  that  still  small  voice  is  heard  : — 
"  I^air  spirit !  well  has  thy  defence 
Explain'd  what  seem'd  thy  gross  offence 


THE    VOICELESS  SOUL.  1 03 

"This — stiff 'ring  soul,  shall  be  thy  meed, — 
Heav'ns  choirs  in  song,  henceforth  to  lead  ; 
Thy  harp  shall  sound  a  loftier  theme, 
Th'justic*  of  thy  Sovereign  King  ! 
Bright  spirit !  enter  to  thy  rest, 
And  be  henceforth  forever  blest  !  " 


THE  VOICES  OF  THE  AIR. 


THE  VOICES   OF  THE   AIR. 


THERE'S  a  sighing  in  the  forest, 

There's  a  moaning  on  the  sea, 
As  of  sad  imprisoned  spirits 

Who  are  struggling  to  be  free  ; 
And  the  burden  of  their  yearning 

Is  poured  forth  for  evermore, 
In  the  wind  among  the  branches 

And  the  waves  upon  the  shore. 


There  are  peals  of  ghostly  laughter, 

There  are  anguish'd  cries  of  pain, 
There  are  sighs  of  feeble  women, 

There  are  moans  of  stalwart  men  ; 
There  are  wails  of  little  children 

Ever  mingling  with  the  roar 
Of  the  wind  among  the  branches 

And  the  waves  upon  the  shore. 


108  THE    VOICES   OF    THE  AIR. 

There  are  strains  of  martial  music, 

There  are  tinkling  notes  of  peace, 
There  are  words  of  angry  import, 

There  .are  accents  framed  to  please  ; 
There  are  blows,  and  soft  caresses, 

Ever  blending  with  the  roar 
Of  the  wind  among  the  branches 

And  the  waves  upon  the  shore. 


There  are  sounds  of  battle  fury, 

As  when  mighty  hosts  engage, 
The  vanquished's  cry  for  mercy, 

And  the  victor's  cry  of  rage  ; 
The  clang  of  charging  squadrons, 

And  the  cannon's  sullen  roar, 
In  the  wind  among  the  branches 

And  the  waves  upon  the  shore. 


There  is  bacchanalian  singing, 

There  are  hungry  cries  for  bread, 
There  are  marriage  peans  ringing, 

There  are  tellings  for  the  dead  ; 
There  are  sounds  of  loud  rejoicing, 

There  are  wailings  evermore, 
In  the  wind  among  the  branches 

And  the  waves  upon  the  shore. 


THE    VOICES   OF  THE  AIR.  1 09 

Who  are  these  ghostly  legions 

That  are  circling  everywhere, 
Through  the  dim,  unearthly  regions, 

Of  the  pale  and  spectral  air  ; 
Whose  voices'  mournful  cadence, 

Ever  mingles  with  the  roar 
Of  the  wind  among  the  branches 

And  the  waves  upon  the  shore  ? 


They  are  disembodied  spirits 

Who  have  run  the  race  of  life, 
Who  have  drank  its  cup  of  sorrow, 

Who  have  fought  its  bitter  strife  ; 
Who,  like  us,  once  wondered  blindly, 

As  they  listened  to  the  roar 
Of  the  wind  among  the  branches 

And  the  waves  upon  the  shore. 


Condemn'd  to  sad  recital 

Of  the  story  of  their  life, 
They  re-act  each  scene  of  folly, 

They  re-count  each  deed  of  strife  ; 
All  their  crimes,  and  mad  ambitions, 

Are  rehearsed  amid  the  roar 
Of  the  wind  among  the  branches 

And  the  waves  upon  the  shore. 


IIO  THE    VOICES    OF   THE  AIR. 

A  trackless  sea  before  us, 

We  are  drifting  ever  on 
To  join  that  phantom  chorus, 

And  to  swell  their  ghostly  song ; 
Full  soon,  our  voices  blending, 

Will  be  lost  amid  the  roar 
Of  the  wind  among  the  branches 

And  the  waves  upon  the  shore. 


THE  SLEIGH- RIDE. 


THE   SLEIGH-RIDE. 


CALM  and  bright  was  the  winter's  night 
When  I  asked  my  love  to  ride  ; 

And  the  shadows  lay  on  our  lonely  way 
Through  the  forest  dark  and  wide. 

The  air  was  cold,  but  our  hearts  were  bold, 

I  circled  her  with  my  arm  ; 
"  O  what  care  we,  tho'  cold  it  be, 

With  love  to  keep  us  warm  !  " 

The  forest  is  pass'd,  and  we  reach  at  last, 
(Too  quick  the  moments  hied)  ; 

The  tavern  gay,  where  a  bright  array 
Are  gathered  from  far  and  wide. 

"  All  hail  to  thee  !  "  and  hand  grasp  free, 

Our  late  arrival  greet ; 
And  friendly  word  is  echoing  heard, 

As  old  acquaintance  meet. 


114  THE  SLEIGH-RIDE. 

"  Now  quickly  hie  to  the  ballroom  nigh, 

Let  the  players  tax  their  might ; 
Nor  music  sweet,  nor  dances  fleet 

May  last  till  morning  light." 

Ah  !  my  bosom  swells,  as  memory  tells 

How  we  floated  on,  and  on  ; 
How  our  feet  kept  time  to  the  music's  rhyme, 

How  two  hearts  beat  as  one  ! 

All,  all  too  soon  comes  the  midnight  moon, 

The  dancers  leave  the  floor  ; 
The  partings  said, — the  guests  are  sped, 

And  the  festive  scene  is  o'er. 

Now  cold  and  dark  lies  the  forest  stark, 
And  the  night  wind  makes  his  moan 

High  o'er  head,  where  the  branches  dead 
With  mosses  are  over-grown. 

But  what  care  I  for  the  wintry  sky, 

Or  what  for  the  rising  storm  ? 
"  Let  the  wild  wind  rave,  our  hearts  are  brave, 

And  love  will  shield  from  harm  !  " 

Fast,  fast  we  fled  !     As  we  onward  sped 

My  snorting  courser  shied  ; 
But  what  care  I  for  a  night-hawk's  cry, 

She  hath  promised  to  be  my  bride  ! 


THE  SLEIGH-RIDE.  115 

On,  on  we  flew  !     Ah  !  now  I  knew 

Some  demon  lurked  behind  ; 
For  a  mournful  cry  came  rushing  by 

Borne  on  the  startl'd  wind  ! 

I  knew  full  well  that  sound  of  hell 

Through  the  forest  cold  and  lone  ; 
And  I  sought  in  vain  to  quell  the  pain 

Which  turn'd  my  heart  to  stone. 

Tho'  swift  I  knew  was  my  courser  true, 

The  forest  was  dark  and  wide  ; 
And  I  mourn'd  full  sore  to  think  I  bore 

My  loved  one  by  my  side. 

Away  !  away  !     The  foam-flakes  gray — 

The  bright  sparks  fly  like  rain  ; 
But  swifter  still,  down  yonder  hill, 

Dark  shadows  flit  amain  ! 

Now,  God  above,  look  down  in  love, 

And  shield  us  with  thy  might ; 
Or  the  mournful  moan  of  the  forest  lone 

Our  requiem  sings  to-night ! 

Away  !  away  !     My  gallant  gray 

Alas  !   is  sorely  tried  ; 
While  steadily  gain,  with  eyes  aflame, 

The  wolves  on  either  side  ! 


1 1 6"  THE  SLEIGH-RIDE. 

Now  mad  with  fear,  in  his  wild  career, 

My  steed  makes  sudden  bound  ; 
The  sleigh  turns  o'er — in  terror  sore 

We  fall  on  the  icy  ground. 

We  wait  for  death  with  labor'd  breath, 

I  clasp  her  with  my  arm, — 
"  The  wild  wolves  nigh,  we  may  still  defy, 

For  love  will  shield  from  harm  !  " 

Now  God  be  praised  !  I  stand  amaz'd  ! 

The  yelling  crew  have  flown  ! 
My  steed  speeds  on,  the  wolves  have  gone, 

And  we  are  left  alone  ! 

Away  !  away  !     My  gallant  gray, 

Thy  steps  are  wing'd  with  fright  ! 
But  the  wild  wolves'  cry  is  all  too  nigh, 

Their  feet  are  all  too  light  ! 

For  hark  !     That  wail,  borne  down  the  gale, 

May  well  suspend  the  breath  ; 
'Tis  the  anguish'd  neigh  of  my  noble  gray, 

As  he  meets  a  fearful  death ! 

"  Now  haste  !     O  haste  !     Not  a  moment  waste, 
Ere  the  fiends  forsake  their  prey  !  " 

I  turn'd  to  find  my  love  had  swoon'd, — 
Upon  the  ground  she  lay. 


THE  SLEIGH-RIDE.  II? 

Ha !     Far  below  lies  the  river's  flow, 

Hard  bound  its  frozen  surge  ; 
Now  yon  fallen  tree  shall  our  refuge  be 

Poised  o'er  the  dizzy  verge  ! 

Her  form  I  raise.     Now  God  be  prais'd  ! 

I  have  reach'd  the  fallen  pine  ! 
And  with  foot  of  dread  my  path  I  tread 

Along  its  treacherous  line  ! 

Far,  far  below  lies  the  river's  flow, 

Its  iron  crust  beneath  ; 
A  dizzy  sight  in  the  murky  light, — 

'Twere  a  fearful  fall  to  death  ! 

Cold,  cold  it  blew  !  the  snow-flakes  flew, 

I  clasp'd  her  senseless  form  ; 
As  we  trembling  lay  o'er  that  chasm  gray, 

With  but  love  to  keep  us  warm. 

Anon  the  air  became  more  fair, 

The  storm-wind  blew  less  chill  ; 
And  tripping  feet,  and  music  sweet, 

Came  echoing  o'er  the  hill. 

Alas  !  in  vain  I  strove  to  gain 

My  senses  as  they  fled  ; 
And  yet  I  knew — yon  hellish  crew 

That  treacherous  music  made. 


Il8  THE  SLEIGH-RIDE. 

Full  well  I  knew  the  storm-wind  through 

Had  steep'd  my  soul  in  lethe  ; 
And  the  tripping  feet  and  the  music  sweet 

Were  heralds  of  coming  death  ! 

There,  close  beside,  lay  my  promis'd  bride  ; 

O'er  her  lips,  so  pale  and  wan, 
A  smile  there  play'd,  as  she  sleeping  said, — • 

"  And  love  will  shield  from  harm  !  " 

O'er  the  chasm  deep,  now  lost  in  sleep, 

Unheard  the  night-wind's  moan  ; 
Unheard  the  cry  of  the  wild  wolves  nigh 

In  the  forest  cold  and  lone. 

But  while  we  sleep,  a  shadow  creeps 

Along  the  trembling  pine  ; 
With  eye  of  flame,  with  bristling  mane, 

And  form  so  gaunt  and  grim  ! 

He  hath  reach'd  my  side  !     He  hath  seized  my  bride 

Unbends  my  feeble  hold  ! 
I  feel  her  slip  from  the  palsied  grip, 

Of  my  hands  benumb'd  with  cold  ! 

Now,  God  above,  look  down  in  love, 

And  rescue  her  with  Thy  might, 
From  the  cruel  jaw  and  the  hungry  maw 

Of  the  forest  wolf  this  nisht  ! 


THE  SLEIGH-RIDE.  119 

But  one  step  more  and  they  reach  the  shore, 

The  gray  wolfs  task  is  done  ; 
Ah  !  Christ  be  bless'd  !     His  feet  have  miss'd  ! 

And  the  chasm  claims  its  own  ! 

Down  !  down  they  go  !  on  the  frozen  snow 

I  hear  them  strike  beneath  ; 
The  gray  wolf  nigh  to  my  love  hard  by, 

But  his  eyes  are  closed  in  death ! 

Now  get  ye  gone  through  the  forest  lone, 

Ye  have  robb'd  me  of  my  bride  ; 
But  your  cruel  jaw,  and  your  hungry  maw, 

Shall  remain  unsatisfied  ! 

Aye  !  get  ye  gone,  ere  the  morning  sun 

Shall  gild  the  scene  of  death  ; 
Where  I  lonely  lie  on  my  pine  tree  high, 

My  dead  love  far  beneath  ! 

Aye  !  get  ye  gone,  for  the  echoing  horn 

Is  winding  far  and  near  ; 
And  the  eager  sound  of  my  faithful  hound, 

And  my  father's  voice  I  hear  ! 

****** 

Long  years  have  fled  since  that  night  of  dread 

When  I  ask'd  my  love  to  ride, 
When  I  lonely  lay  o'er  that  chasm  gray 

In  the  forest  dark  and  wide. 


I2O  THE   SLEIGH- RIDE. 

My  locks  grew  white  on  that  fearful  night, - 

For  months  I  courted  death  ; 
Ah !  would  I  had  died  by  my  loved  one's  side, 

On  the  river  far  beneath  ! 

Full  well  I  know  I  shall  shortly  go, 

I  shall  clasp  her  angel  form  : 
On  a  brighter  shore  we  shall  part  no  more, 

And  love  will  shield  from  harm  ! 


S  O  LI  TUBE. 


SOLITUDE. 

A   SUMMER   IDYL. 

How  sweet  to  leave  the  bustle  of  the  town, 

And  wander  thro'  the  woodlands  all  alone  : 
To  mark  the  mellow  sunbeams  drifting  down 

Through  hanging  boughs,  while,  like  a  loose  veil 

thrown, 

High  over  all   is  seen  the  azure  sky's  majestic 
dome. 

What  myriad,  myriad  voices  in  the  air, 
Shrill,  tiny  voices,  hailing  as  I  pass  ; 

A  ceaseless  hum  which  greets  me  everywhere, 
The  very  leaves  seem  vocal,  and  the  grass 
For  rapturous  joy  is  fain,  each  blade,  all  others 
to  surpass. 

The  drowsy  locust,  hymning  as  he  goes, 
The  merry  cricket,  and  the  amorous  bee  ; 

The  humming-bird,  who  lingers  o'er  the  rose 
One  instant  only,  then  away  doth  flee, 
Midst  other  charms  to   wanton,   and  still  other 
scenes  to  see. 


124  SOLITUDE. 

Like  far-off  echoes  from  the  land  of  dreams, 

I  hear  the  distant  bleating  of  the  flocks  ; 
The  watch-dog's  bark,  while  yet  more  distant  seems 
'    The  measured  striking  of  the  village  clocks, 
And  angry  clarion  challenges  rehearsed  by  rival 
cocks. 

The  babbling  brooklet  in  its  pebbly  bed, 

A  tortuous  course  with  rippling  murmur  weaves  ; 

The  gentle  wood-doves  cooing  overhead, 
The  voiceless  rhythm  of  the  falling  leaves, 
And  all  the  countless  sounds  unheard  which  yet 
the  mind  perceives. 

How  calm  the  aspect  of  yon  purple  hills, 

Which  brood,   and   brood,   and   brood  for  ever 
more  ; 

Forever  brooding.      O  !  my  spirit  thrills 
With  eager  longing  for  their  hidden  store 
Of  secret  knowledge,  and  their  mystic  legendary 
lore. 

For  they  have  brooded  thus  for  countless  years, 
Aye,  brooded  thus  ere  Time  his  course  began  ; 

Unmoved,  have  marked  the  flood  of  human  fears, 
And  human  hopes,  which  crowd  life's  little  span  ; 
Have  heard  unmoved,  the  last  faint  piping  of  the 
insect  man. 


SOLITUDE.  125 

Forever  waiting,  still  they  seem  to  be 
Forever  waiting  for  we  know  not  what : 

An  awful  sense  of  mighty  mystery, 

Of  something  yet  to  come,  or  something  that 
Hath  passed  beyond  our  ken,   which  was,   but 
now  is  not. 

Like  mighty  giants,  limned  against  the  sky, 

Each   monstrous    bulk   upheaves   from   out   the 

plain  ; 

All  motionless,  in  endless  sleep  they  lie, 
Nor  babble  of  the  secrets  they  retain 
Within  their  rock-ribbed  bosoms,  ever  probed  by 
man  in  vain. 

Like  mighty  giants  of  some  elder  day, 

They  seem  no  part  nor  parcel  of  our  time  ; 

Nor  heed  unto  the  present  ever  pay, 
But  slumber  on  in  attitude  sublime  ; 
Girt  by  their  leafy  beards,  and  capp'd  with  hoary 
rime. 

The  rise  and  fall  of  empires  is  to  them 

No  more  than  fate  of  yonder  leaflet  blown  ; 

They  ne'er  have  bow'd  to  kingly  diadem, 
Nor  spurned  the  neck  of  despot  overthrown  ; 
Nor  ever  wept  to  hear  the  dying  patriot's  plain 
tive  moan. 


126  SOLITUDE. 

And  yonder  river,  with  its  ceaseless  flow 
Of  placid  waters,  rolling  to  the  sea  ; 

Hath  seen  alike,  unmoved,  all  human  woe, 
All  human  joy  ;  unmoved,  hath  heard  for  aye 
The  victor's  cry  of  triumph  mock  the  vanquished's 
agony. 

Or  crystal  pure  as  dew-drop  at  the  birth  ; 

Or  gore  ensanguined  from  some  mortal  fray 
Upon  his  banks  ;  or  thick  with  clayey  earth 

Washed  from  the  mountain's  side  ;  he  wends  his 

way. 

As  calmly  now,  as  poured  the  flood  which  marked 
his  natal  day. 

Alike  to  him  the  Indian's  frail  canoe 

Freighted  with  furs  ;  or  rich  with  many  a  bale, 

Our  modern  argosies  ;  or  deep  with  woe, 
The  slaver's  keel  ;  or  yacht  with  snowy  sail  ; 
Or  steamship  swift ;    or   warlike  squadrons  clad 
in  iron  mail. 

Or  yet  more  distant  in  the  lapse  of  years 

His  flood  hath  roll'd, — a  long  forgotten  race, 
Cultured  and  strong  ;  whose  handiwork  still  bears 
Mute  witness, — they,  like  us,  once  filled  a  space 
In  Time's  great  album,  but  have  passed,  and  left 
but  scanty  trace. 


SOLITUDE.  127 

We,  puny  offspring  of  degenerate  loins, 
Pickaxe  in  hand,  or  burrow  in  the  earth, 

Or  climb  the  rocky  steep,  to  scan  the  signs 
We  may  not  read  ;  to  wonder  o'er  the  birth 

Of  nations   all    unknown, — their   rise, — their   pro 
gress, — and  their  death. 

And  in  the  distant  future,  may  not  we, 

Who  vaunt  our  modern  culture,  modern  thought, 

Mouldered  to  dust,  like  them,  forgotten  be  ; 
Our  very  name  a  blank, — unknown,  unsought. 
Or  sought  in  vain, — the  crumbling  relics  that  our 
hands  have  wrought  ? 

O  !  may  this  thought,  borne  constantly  in  mind, 
Still  serve  to  check  our  pride  from  day  to  day  ; — 

Life  is  a  leaf,  fann'd  by  the  passing  wind 
A  season  only,  then  to  fade  away  ; 
To  join  the  myriads  gone  before,  and  share  their 
swift  decay. 


THE  DREAM. 


THE  DREAM. 


ONE  summer's  morn  I  wander'd  forth, 
Soft  blew  the  breezes  from  the  south, 
And  plain'd  the  locust  of  the  drouth 
Throughout  the  leafy  wood  ; 

Upon  the  ground  the  shadows  slept, 
Between  the  boughs  the  sunbeams  crept, 
Aside,  the  babbling  brooklets  wept, 
Above,  the  turtles  cooed. 

My  heart  alone  was  dull  as  night, 
But  clouds  and  darkness  met  my  sight, 
And  nowhere  pierced  a  ray  of  light 
To  cheer  my  lonely  way  ; 

The  maid  I  loved  to  me  was  lost, 
Now  anguish  torn,  and  passion  toss'd, 
My  budding  hopes  all  nipp'd  with  frost,- 
Upon  the  ground  they  lay. 


I32  THE  DREAM. 

Aye  !      Fair  as  false,  and  false  as  fair, 
Bright  golden  gleam'd  her  wavy  hair, 
My  heart  she  used  it  to  ensnare, 
And  bound  me  foot  and  hand  ; 

Deep,  dreamy,  dark,  her  lovely  eyes, 
Or  rose,  or  fell,  like  summer  skies, 
Now  bidding  bright  Aurora  rise, 
Now  night  oppress  the  land. 

Full  tall  and  stately  in  her  place, 
So  lithe  of  form  and  fair  of  face, 
All  tongues  united  in  her  praise, 
My  queenly  Geraldine  ! 

Long  months  before  when  stars  were  bright. 
When  lay  the  snowdrifts  pure  and  white, 
Beneath  the  calm  moon's  holy  light, 
She  promised  to  be  mine. 

Aye,  mine  till  death  !     Yet  mine  no  more  ! 
Full  false  the  plighted  faith  she  swore, 
And  my  poor  wounded  heart  was  sore, 
My  tears  fell  fast  as  rain  ; 

Anon  I  rose,  in  sullen  mood, 
And,  like  Orlando,  when  he  wooed 
Fair  Rosalind  in  Arden  wood, 
I  carv'd  the  false  one's  name. 


THE  DREAM.  133 

I  carv'd  it  on  a  giant  oak, 
Whose  trunk  defied  the  lightning's  stroke, 
And  whose  proud  crown  from  all  bespoke 
The  reverence  his  due  ; 

I  carv'd  the  stately  elm  tree  high, 
I  carv'd  the  lowly  willow  nigh, 
The  mournful  cypress  standing  by, 
The  poplar  and  the  yew. 

"  O  oak  !  thy  strength  is  vain,"  I  said, 
"  I  once,  like  thee,  the  monarch  play'd, 
Thou  soon,  like  me,  all  lowly  laid, 
Shalt  mingle  with  the  dust  ! 

"  O  elm  !  thy  form  is  passing  fair, 
But  false  as  she  whose  name  ye  bear, 
Thy  heart  is  rotten  at  the  core, 
And  fall  ye  shortly  must ! 

"  O  willow  !  "  said  I,  "  weeping  o'er 
The  countless  graves  of  those  who  bore 
Life's  sorrows,  but  are  now  no  more, 
Thy  tears  are  vainly  sown  ; 

"  For  they  who  die  are  freed  from  pain, 
Not  loss  is  theirs,  but  lasting  gain, 
The  wretched  only  here  remain 
To  make  perpetual  moan  ! 


134  THE  DREAM. 

"  O  poplar  !  "  said  I,  "  lightly  stirr'd 
By  every  breeze,  by  every  bird, 
Thou  art  the  type  of  woman's  word, 
Of  her  whose  name  ye  bear  ; 

"  For  he  who  trusts  to  thee  his  weight 
Will  surely  mourn  disconsolate, 
And,  from  the  ground,  perceive  too  late 
That  thou  art  false  as  fair  ! 

"  O  yew-tree  !  "  said  I,  "  wherefore  strive 
On  earth  for  centuries  to  live, 
While  I,  tho'  young,  would  glad  receive 
My  summons  even  now  ; 

"  O  cypress  !  "  said  I,  "  type  of  death, 
In  life  I  find  but  broken  faith, 
All  hail  to  thee  !  thy  mournful  wreath 
Shall  bind  my  gloomy  brow  !  " 

I  said,  and  straight  a  garland  wove 
From  off  the  cypress  bough  above, 
Then  sinking  down  within  the  grove, 
I  thought  on  her  and  wept ; 

Anon,  my  spirit  grew  more  calm, 
And,  chanted  low,  I  heard  a  psalm 
Come  floating  through  the  twilight  warm. 
'Twas  fancy — for  I  slept. 


THE  DREAM,  135 

I  dream'd  that  in  a  cloistered  nave 
I  stood  before  a  pilgrim  grave  ; 
A  staff  into  my  hand  he  gave, 
Then  vanished  from  my  sight ; 

Anon,  upon  a  mountain  nigh, 
I  mark'd  a  path  ascend  on  high, 
And  lose  itself  within  the  sky, 
A  gloomy  sky  of  night. 

And  as  I  mourn'd  the  cruel  fate 
Which  left  me  thus  disconsolate, 
To  climb  alone,  or  lonely  wait 
Within  an  unknown  land  ! 

Behold  unto  my  raptured  sight 
Appear'd  an  angel  veil'd  in  white, 
Who  pointed  upward  to  the  height, 
And  led  me  by  the  hand. 

Methought  long  days  we  journey'd  on, 
Until  my  strength  was  well-nigh  gone, 
My  weary  feet  all  bruised  and  torn, 
My  sad  soul  desolate  ; 

At  last,  beside  a  mossy  stone, 
In  anguish  sore,  I  cast  me  down, — 
I  bade  my  guide  proceed  alone, 
And  leave  me  to  my  fate. 


136  THE  DREAM. 

Behold  !  the  word  no  sooner  said, 
Than  straight  my  beating  heart,  dismay'd, 
Upon  the  angel's  breast  was  laid, 
And  lightly  wafted  on  ! 

We  reach'd  at  last  a  level  plain, 
All  bright  with  golden  fields  of  grain, 
With  luscious  fruits  of  every  name, 
And  eloquent  with  song. 

And  now  methought  I  sigh'd  a  prayer 
Unto  my  guardian  angel  fair, 
That  she  who  safely  brought  me  there 
Would  evermore  be  mine  ; 

When  lo  !  her  snowy  veil  she  raised. 
My  angel  guide  stood  forth  confessed  ; 
I  woke,  and  clasp'd  unto  my  breast, 
My  love — my  Geraldine  ! 


CUSTERS   CHARGE. 


NOTE. 

Upon  the  morning  of  June  25,  1876,  Gen.  Geo.  A.  Custer,  of 
the  Seventh  Regiment  U.  S.  Cavalry,  was  slain,  together  with  his 
whole  command  of  three  hundred  men,  in  an  engagement  with  the 
Sioux  Indians,  under  their  noted  chief,  Sitting  Bull,  at  the  Little 
Horn  River,  Indian  Territory.  The  battle  took  place  under  the 
following  circumstances,  so  far  at  least  as  can  be  gleaned  from  such 
scanty  reports  of  the  affair  as  have  reached  the  public  ear,  most  of 
the  details  having  been  subsequently  learned  from  Indians  engaged 
in  the  battle,  and  who  have  been  since  taken  prisoners. 

General  Custer  and  Major  Reno,  with  twelve  companies  of  the 
Seventh,  were  upon  the  day  in  question  acting  under  orders  to  fol 
low  up  the  hostiles  (who  were  surmised  to  be  close  at  hand),  and  to 
ascertain  so  far  as  possible  their  numerical  force.  In  furtherance  of 
this  design,  Custer  and  Reno  separated,  the  former  taking  five  com 
panies,  the  staff  and  non-commissioned  staff  of  his  regiment,  together 
with  a  number  of  scouts  ;  while  the  latter  retained  with  him  the  re 
maining  seven  companies. 

Shortly  after  this  separation,  General  Custer  discovered  immedi 
ately  in  front,  and  scattered  along  the  bottom  of  a  rocky  defile  or 
canon,  a  number  of  Indian  lodges  or  "  Teepees,"  and  seeing  the 
Indians  apparently  preparing  for  flight,  he,  with  his  usual  impetuos 
ity  immediately  ordered  a  charge,  and,  putting  spurs  to  his  horse, 
led  the  way  down  the  valley  at  full  gallop,  closely  followed  by  his 
whole  command,  all  cheering  lustily. 

This  defile  is  about  a  mile  in  length,  with  an  average  width  of  per 
haps  one  hundred  yards,  and  is  bounded  and  enclosed  upon  each  side 
by  high  stone  ridges,  or  "  Hog  backs,"  as  they  are  termed  in  that 
country.  As  the  result  proved,  these  ridges  were  lined  upon  both 
sides  of  the  valley  at  the  entrance,  and  for  fully  half  its  entire  length, 
by  large  bodies  of  Indian  warriors,  all  well  armed,  and  in  many 
cases  with  the  latest  improved  breech-loading  rifles,  furnished  to  them 


I4O  CUSTER'S    CHARGE. 

by  traders  and  others.  This  valley  was,  in  fact,  a  trap  or  ambuscade, 
into  which  General  Custer  and  his  men  had  been  purposely  drawn 
with  a  view  to  their  annihilation. 

At  the  first  volley  more  than  half  the  command  fell,  shot  down  by 
an  invisible  foe,  crouching  behind  the  scattered  trees  and  boulders 
''which  line  the  rocky  sides  of  the  canon.  Retreat  was  simply  impos 
sible,  for  the  savages  now  swarmed  behind  the  doomed  men,  cutting 
off  all  chance  of  escape  in  that  direction.  As  a  last  resort,  after 
vainly  endeavoring  for  a  short  time  to  withstand  the  overwhelming 
odds  to  which  he  was  opposed,  Custer  seems  to  have  determined  to 
lead  the  remnant  of  his  force  forward  in  the  hope  of  escaping  by  the 
lower  end  of  the  valley.  This  attempt  was  made,  but  was  appar 
ently  soon  given  up  by  the  men,  probably  through  despair  of  its 
practicability,  and  General  Custer,  upon  reaching  a  place  of  com 
parative  safety,  appears  to  have  discovered  for  the  first  time  that  he 
was  alone,  that  his  men  had  not  followed  him,  while  the  continued 
firing  in  the  direction  from  which  he  had  just  come  told  conclusively 
that  the  work  of  carnage  was  still  going  on.  Without  a  moment's 
hesitation  he  turned  his  horse's  head,  seized  the  reins  firmly  in  his 
teeth,  grasped  a  pistol  in  each  hand,  and  galloped  back  up  the  defile 
to  perish  with  his  comrades.  It  is  believed  that  not  a  man  of  that 
devoted  band  lived  to  tell  the  tale. 

General  Custer's  two  brothers,  his  nephew  Ca  young  man  of  only 
nineteen  years),  and  his  sister's  husband,  all  fell  fighting  by  his  side. 
When  found,  Custer's  body  lay  near  the  top  of  a  small  hillock,  while 
around  him,  within  a  circle  of  a  few  yards,  lay  the  bodies  of  his 
relatives.  The  brief  despatch  sent  from  the  field  of  battle  two  days 
later  speaks  volumes.  "  The  whole  Custer  family  died  at  the  head 
of  their  column." 

Shortly  after  the  commencement  of  this  battle  Reno  was  engaged 
by  another  body  of  savages,  who  prevented  him  from  rendering  as 
sistance  to  Custer,  keeping  him  and  his  men  completely  surrounded 
in  the  hills  for  forty-eight  hours  without  either  food  or  water.  His 
command  would  doubtless  have  ultimately  shared  the  same  fate  as 
that  of  Custer  and  his  force,  had  not  relief  speedily  arrived. 

It  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  while  nearly  all  the  other  bodies  upon 


CLUSTER'S   CHARGE.  l\\ 

the  field  of  battle  were  found  horribly  mutilated,  that  of  Custer  was 
untouched  ;  a  rare  tribute  of  respect  paid  to  the  mortal  remains  of  a 
brave  man  by  a  savage  foe. 

It  is  estimated  that  from  4,000  to  5,000  Indians  were  engaged  in 
this  battle,  besides  a  number  of  squaws,  who  roamed  the  field  after 
ward,  butchering  the  wounded,  and  mutilating  and  despoiling  the 
dead  bodies. 

General  Custer  left  a  widow,  but  no  children.  He  was  a  bold, 
dashing  officer,  full  of  ardor  and  daring,  beloved  by  his  men  and  uni 
versally  popular.  He  was  born  in  Ohio,  was  a  graduate  of  West 
Point,  had  already  attracted  considerable  notice  as  a  magazine 
writer,  and  was  but  thirty-five  years  of  age  at  the  time  of  his  death. 

The  foregoing  description  of  a  most  lamentable  affair  may  not  be 
in  all  respects  absolutely  accurate,  having  been  gathered  principally 
from  the  newspaper  reports,  but  the  author  has  every  reason  to  be 
lieve  that  in  the  main  it  is  so,  and  has  founded  upon  it  the  accompa 
nying  slight  tribute  to  the  memory  of  a  brave  officer  and  of  his  equally 
gallant  companions.  The  poem  was  written  upon  the  spur  of  the 
first  reports  of  the  battle.  Since  that  time  many  severe  strictures 
have  been  passed  upon  General  Custer  for  his  rashness  in  thus  risking 
his  own  life  and  the  lives  of  his  men.  These  questions  the  author 
must  leave  to  others  better  versed  in  military  matters  than  himself, 
but  it  is  at  least  admitted  by  all  that  Custer  died  bravely  with-  Ms 
men.  God's  law  of  death  is  a  statute  of  repose.  It  were  not  to  our 
credit  as  a  nation  if  any  petty  feeling  arising  from  General  Custer' s 
possible  indiscretion  or  want  of  judgment  in  this  matter  should  be 
allowed  to  mar  the  laurel  we  tender  to  his  memory. 

With  the  exception  of  the  famous  charge  of  the  six  hundred,  at 
Balaklava,  which  in  many  respects  this  closely  resembled,  the  whole 
history  of  modern  cavalry  warfare  furnishes  scarcely  a  parallel  to  it 
in  its  dash,  daring,  and  disastrous  consequences. 


OUSTER'S    CHARGE. 


"COMPANIONS!"  he  said,  "  tho'  misfortune   hath 

found  us, 
Tho'  each  tree  and  rock  hides  a  foe  from  the 

view  ; 

Tho'  comrades  are  falling  each  moment  around  us, 
To  your  friends,  to  yourselves,  to  your  country 
be  true  ! 


"  On  either  side  beetle  the  rocky  bluffs  o'er  us, 
Behind  us  grim  terrors  await  for  our  breath  ; 

But  one  path  lies  open — the  valley  before  us — 
Say,   friends  !    dare   ye  ride  yonder  gauntlet  of 
death  ?  " 


"Lo!  high  on  the  mountain  crag  flaps  the  bald 

vulture, 

Hark  !  howls  the  gray  wolf  in  the  thicket  be 
neath  ; 

What  reck  yon  grim  guests  our  refinement  or  cul 
ture, 
They  come  but  to  feast  at  the  banquet  of  death  ! 


CUSTEK'S   CHARGE.  H3 

"  Mark,  friends,  how  the  dusky  foe  circle  around 

us, 

Each  rifle  at  rest  and  each  knife  in  its  sheath  ; 
The  huntsman  is  hunted,  and  they  who  now  hound 

us 

Rest   not   till   their   quarry  lies   steeped    in   his 
lethe  ! 


"  Count  a  gap  in  our  ranks  at  each  rifle's  rattle, 
The  fall  of  a  man  at  the  twang  of  each  bow  ; 

Say,  friends  !  stay  we  here  to  be  slaughter'd  like 

cattle, 
Or  die  we  like  men,  with  our  feet  to  the  foe  ; 


"Think  we  first  on  the  friends  who  so  tenderly 

love  us, 

Think  all  on  death's  glory,  but  naught  on  its  pain  ; 
On  the  dear  ones  in  heaven  now  watching  above 

us,— 
Look  each  to  his  saddle-girths,  pistols  and  rein  ! 

"  Ready — charge  !  " — the   steel    hoofs    down    the 

dark  defile  rattle ; 

Swift  bullets  in  thousands  fly  hurtling  like  hail  ! 
Hurrah  !  they  are  safe  ! — far  behind  lies  the  bat 
tle,— 
Then  why  turns  yon  bold-hearted  warrior  pale  ? 


144  OUSTER'S   CHARGE. 

u  O   cowards  ! — O  false  ones  ! — why,  why,  did  ye 

falter  ?  " 

He  cries  out  in  anguish,  with  laboring  breath  ; 
"Ah,  Christ  !  they  have  stay'd  but  to  add  to  the 

slaughter — 

They   dared  not  ride   with  me  the   gauntlet   of 
death  !  " 


Will  he  leave  them  ?     One  look  upon  mountain  and 
valley, 

For  the  wife  of  his  bosom  a  thought  and  a  sigh  ; 
One  moment  he  hearkens  the  death-dealing  volley, 

Then  spurs  up  the  defile  to  rescue  or  die  ! 

He  is  lost  in  the  smoke, — now  death's  darts  faster 

rattle  ; 
Where,  where  find  a  hero  more  worthy  fame's 

wreath  ? 

Once  more  he  hath  entered  the  loud  hell  of  battle, 
His  pistols  in  hand  and  the  reins  in  his  teeth  ! 

'Tis   vain !      The   wild    foe    circle    closer    around 

them, 

Each  hero  in  turn  lies  in  death  on  the  sod  ; 
In  that  den  of  slaughter  the  grim  spectre  found 

them, — 
They  rest  in  the  peace  of  a  merciful  God  ! 


OUSTER'S   CHARGE.  145 

Brave  Custer,  we  mourn  thee  ! — yet,  knowing  thy 

glory, 

We  would  not  recall  thee  again  to  the  earth  ; 
Long,  long  shall  be  honored  in  statue  and  story 
The  man  who  rode  back  thro'  the  gauntlet  of 
death  ! 


ODE   TO  NATURE. 


ODE  TO   NATURE. 


I. 

FOND  Nature  !     Maid  of  heavenly  birth  ! 
Thou  Protean  form  of  changeful  mood  ! 
Now  basking  in  the  sun-lit  wood, 
By  zephyrs  fann'd,  by  brooklets  wooed, 
Now  mounting  high  the  tempest  rude 
To  rend  in  rage  the  trembling  earth ! 

II. 

While  yet  a  child,  thy  mighty  form 
I  pictured  in  the  rising  storm  ; 
With  breathless  awe  my  heart  was  still'd, 
My  soul  with  speechless  raptures  thrill'd  ; 
I  heard  thy  whisp'rings  in  the  breath 
Of  Summer  winds  athwart  the  heath  ; 
Thy  voice  amid  the  angry  roar 
Of  billows  on  the  foamy  shore. 
The  partridge  drumming  in  her  lair 
Reveal'd  thee  to  the  list'ning'air  ; 


ISO  ODE    TO  NATURE. 

The  cricket's  chirp,  the  cat  bird's  call, 
The  murm'ring  hum  of  water-fall  ; 
The  squirrel  chatt'ring  in  the  tree, 
The  rabbit  on  the  grassy  lea  ; 
The  dun-deer  in  the  tangled  brake, 
The  wild-duck  on  the  crystal  lake  ; 
Each  lowly  plant,  each  pine-tree  high 
Alike  proclaim'd  thy  presence  nigh  ! 

III. 

In  darksome  wood  or  lonely  glen 
I  wandered  far  from  haunts  of  men  ; 
Each  step  disclos'd  some  new  delight 
To  raptured  ear  or  ravish' d  sight ; 
A  mellow  haze  enshrin'd  the  scene 
In  soften'd  tints  and  golden  sheen  ; 
Each  Iris  hue  stood  forth  display'd 
In  alternated  light  and  shade, 
While  over  all  soft  zephyrs  play'd. 
The  drowsy  locust  hymn'd  his  way, 
And  lull'd  to  rest  the  Autumn  day  ; 
The  humming-bird  and  am'rous  bee 
Seemed  match'd  in  friendly  rivalry, 
And  swiftly  flew  from  bower  to  bower 
To  woo  and  kiss  each  blushing  flower. 
The  swallow  skimm'd  the  glassy  deep 
Where  countless  fish  lay  wrapt  in  sleep ; 
The  musk-rat  trailed  his  shining  wake, 
Or  idly  floated  on  the  lake  ; 


ODE    TO  NATURE. 

That  bird  of  meditative  mood, 
The  melancholy  heron,  stood, 
And  lost  in  dreams  forgot  to  slay 
The  finny  tribes  which  round  him  lay. 

IV. 

A  dreamy  child,  of  thoughtful  mood,  . 
I  shunn'd  companions  wild  and  rude, 
And  leaving  oft  their  giddy  play 
To  thy  lov'd  haunts  would  bend  my  way  : 
There,  prone  beneath  some  ancient  tree. 
Thy  songsters'  wild-wood  minstrelsy 
Still  held  my  ears  in  sweet  suspense 
And  lull'd  to  rest  each  captive  sense. 

v. 

I  mused  !  I  dream'd  !     Anon  my  eyes 
Saw  faery  forms  around  me  rise  ; 
I  mused  !  I  dream'd  !     Now  seemed  my  ears 
To  list  the  music  of  the  spheres  ; 
I  mused  !  I  dream'd  !     By  slow  degrees 
I  pierced  thy  hidden  mysteries  : 
My  senses  lull'd  as  in  a  trance, 
I  saw  a  mystic  form  advance 
From  out  the  wood  where  shadows  slept, 
And  slanting  sunbeams  sidling  crept. 
It  came  !     Nor  fear,  but  rapturous  awe 
Amaz'd  my  soul  !    It  came, — I  saw 


I$2  ODE    TO  NATURE. 

An  angel  form  of  heav'nly  grace 

And  aspect  mild.     Her  lovely  face 

Glow'd  sweet  with  kindness.     In  her  eyes 

Were  match'd  the  tints  of  Summer  skies. 

With  wild-wood  flowers  her  head  was  crown'd. 

Her  zone  with  leaves  was  circled  round  ; 

Her  arms  a  grateful  burden  bore 

Of  ripen'd  fruits, — nor  seem'd  her  store 

To  lessen,  as  with  lavish  hand 

She  strew'd  them  o'er  the  smiling  land. 

VI. 

0  goddess  fair  of  wood  and  field  ! 

1  knew  thee  as  thou  stood'st  reveal'd — 
My  guardian  genius  !  at  thy  feet 

I  knelt  in  reverence,  as  were  meet. 

My  heart  o'erflowed, — by  rapture  bound 

My  lips  refus'd  to  utter  sound  ; 

Nor  voice  was  needed  to  express 

My  spirit's  inmost  happiness  ; 

I  bow'd  before  thy  presence  mild, 

At  once  thy  lover,  and  thy  child  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE  POET'S  SOLILOQUY. 

THEY  call  me  "idle,"  and  they  say 
My  bank  account  will  never  thrive, 

Unless  I  leave  my  poesy, 

And  live  my  life  as  others  live. 

They  ask — "  what  use  in  modern  times, 
To  modern  men,  are  mewling  bards, 

Who  waste  their  lives  in  matching  rhymes 
And  idly  gazing  heavenwards  ? 

"  How  help  these  rhyming  fools  to  fill 
The  shops,  the  marts,  the  factories  ; 

Where  throng  their  harvests  to  the  mill, 
Or  plough  their  ships  the  foaming  seas  ?  " 

'Tis  true  ;  no  warp  the  poet  parts, 

No  grain  at  mill  the  poet  tolls  ; 
Yet  grinds  he  bread  for  hungry  hearts, 

Yet  weaves  he  thought  for  famish'd  souls  ! 


156  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Seek  gold  with  vulgar  crowds,  forsooth 
The  poet's  wares  cannot  be  bought ; 

He  stands  the  champion  of  the  truth, 
The  grand  conservator  of  thought ! 

The  God  of  Nature's  minstrelsy 
A  home  the  forest  songster  finds ; 

He  will  provide,  who  wrought  in  me 
The  madness  of  poetic  minds  ! 


THE  POET'S  LAMENT. 

AH,  Prometheus  !  thy  endeavor 
Shadows  still  this  later  day  ; 

Still  are  artists  toiling  ever, 
Men  to  form  from  vulgar  clay. 

Still  the  poet,  Heaven  scaling, 
Seeks  to  win  celestial  fire  ; 

Still  above,  the  vulture,  sailing, 
Sees  he  ever  circling  nigher. 

Still  the  winged  steed  immortal, 
To  the  plow  is  helpless  bound  ; 

Still  Orpheus,  at  the  portal, 
Loses  her  he  lately  found. 


THE  MORNING   OF  LIFE.  157 

Still  Tantalus,  thirsty  ever, 

Sees  the  mocking  waters  thrill ; 

Still  the  weary  roller  never 
Rests  upon  Tartarus'  hill. 

Still  Icarus,  soaring  higher, 

Dies  beneath  the  burning  ray  ; 
Still  Apollo  wakes  the  lyre, 

Still  he  bends  the  bow  to  slay. 

Still  Procrustes  shortens  ever 

Giants  by  a  foot  at  least ; 
Still  the  prison'd  Milo  never 

'Scapes  the  fang  of  cruel  beast. 


THE  MORNING  OF  LIFE. 

HARK  !  the  perfumed  waters  falling, 
Hark  !  the  love-birds  softly  calling  ; 
See  the  orange  blossoms  blowing, 
See  the  cheek  of  beauty  glowing  ; 
Look,  where  down  the  flowery  lea 
Flit  the  butterfly  and  bee. 
Live  to-day,  perchance  to-morrow 
Cometh  care,  and  cometh  sorrow  ; 
Hearken  to  this  word  of  warning  ; 
Life  is  brightest  in  the  morning ; 
Soon  the  mid-day  heat  will  vex  thee, 
Soon  the  evening  shades  perplex  thee. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

On  the  morrow  fails  the  fountain, 
Fly  the  love-birds  to  the  mountain  ; 
Faded  all  the  orange  blowing, 
Blanched  the  cheek  of  beauty  glowing  ; 
Dead,  upon  the  trodden  lea, 
Lie  both  butterfly  and  bee. 
Live  to-day,  perchance  to-morrow 
Cometh  care,  and  cometh  sorrow  ; 
Never  from  the  future  borrow 
With  the  present  still  in  hand. 

Youth  returns  no  more  to  woo  thee, 

Age  and  care  will  soon  undo  thee  ; 

All  things  here  are  evanescent, 

Dies  alike  both  peer  and  peasant ; 

Hope  proclaims  a  future  pleasant, 

All  her  promises  are  lies  ; 

Only  they  who  grasp  the  present, 

Only  they  are  truly  wise. 

Live  to-day,  perchance  to-morrow 

Cometh  care  and  cometh  sorrow. 

Pluck  the  rose  while  yet  'tis  blowing, 
Quaff  the  wine-cup  while  'tis  flowing  ; 
Woo  thy  love  with  tears  and  praises, 
Till  she  yield  to  thy  embraces  ; 
Only  they  who  till  the  vineyard, 
Only  they  shall  taste  the  wine. 
Live  to-day,  perchance  to-morrow 
Cometh  care  and  cometh  sorrow ; 


IN  THE    WILD  ARKANSAS    WOOD.  159 

They  who  from  the  future  borrow, 
They  shall  evermore  repine. 
Hearken  to  this  word  of  warning, 
Life  is  brightest  in  the  morning  ; 
Soon  the  mid-day  heat  will  vex  thee, 
Soon  the  evening  shades  perplex  thee. 


IN  THE  WILD  ARKANSAS  WOOD. 

IN  the  wild  Arkansas  wood, 
'Neath  the  pine  trees  lying  ; 

Naught  to  break  my  solitude, 
Save  the  zephyrs  sighing  ; 

Save  the  robin's  interlude, 
And  his  mate's  replying. 

Far  away  the  city's  hum, 

And  I  lonely  ponder 
Where  the  brown  bear  makes  his  home, 

Where  the  wild  deer  wander  ; 
Leaping  squirrels  slyly  come, 

Gaze  on  me  with  wonder. 

Slant  the  sunbeams,  line  on  line, 

Shadows  interlacing  ; 
Moans  the  melancholy  pine, 

Branch  with  branch  embracing  ; 
Faintly  low  the  distant  kine, 

Homeward  slowly  pacing. 


I6O  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

•  Mocking  birds  with  varied  notes, 
Keep  the  wild  woods  ringing  ; 
Thrushes  swell  their  speckled  throats 

In  rivalry  of  singing  ; 
Blue-jays  flaunt  their  azure  coats, 
Defiance  at  me  flinging. 

Modest  violets,  group'd  around, 
Look  up  with  mild  surprise  ; 

Bearded  pansies,  velvet-crown'd, 
Keep  watch  with  eager  eyes. 

Thus  every  creature  on  the  ground, 
Thus  every  bird  that  flies. 

Now  the  shadows  creep  apace, 
Shadows  without  number  ; 

Now  the  red  sun  hides  his  face 
In  the  mountains  yonder  ; 

Now  the  stillness  of  the  place 
Steeps  my  soul  in  slumber. 


THE   UNATTAINABLE. 

IN  a  dungeon  of  stone  am  I  wall'd  around, 
With  fetters  of  iron  my  limbs  are  bound  ; 
Vainly  I  seek  for  a  ray  of  light, 
But  my  eyes  are  wrapp'd  in  the  pall  of  night. 


THE    UNATTAINABLE.  l6l 

Fain  would  I  soar  to  the  realms  of  day, 
And  plant  my  feet  on  the  starry  way  ; 
Fain  would  I  pierce  to  the  central  throne, 
And  make  my  plaint  to  the  Great  Unknown. 

Fain  would  I  fathom  the  gloomy  past, 
And  scatter  the  shadows  the  ages  cast ; 
To  the  outmost  bounds  of  the  future  fly, 
And  know  the  decrees  of  Destiny. 

I  would  probe  the  recesses  of  Nature's  heart, 
The  breast  of  the  universe  rend  apart  : 
I  would  take  my  stand  on  the  highest  star, 
And  scan  the  horizon  near  and  far. 

On  the  gates  of  Heaven  I'd  warfare  wage, 
And  upon  its  battlements  spend  my  rage  ; 
Nor  ever  I'd  rest  from  my  eager  strife, 
Till  I  knew  the  meaning  of  human  life. 

Till  I  knew  the  meaning  of  human  woe, 
The  whence  we  come,  the  where  we  go  ; 
Till  I  learn'd  the  riddle  whose  answer  lies 
Enwrapp'd  in  Eternal  mysteries. 

Alas  !  I  am  here,— I  know  no  more  ; 
Alas  !  I  am  bound, — I  may  not  soar  ; 
Alas  !  I  am  blind, — I  cannot  see  ; 
And  the  riddle  of  life  is  unread  by  me. 


1 62  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Ah  !  surely  my  spirit  shall  some  time  know 
The  things  which  it  vainly  seeks  for  now  ; 
Ah  !  surely  this  heart  shall  some  time  bide 
In  peace,  and  its  yearnings  be  satisfied. 


ALONE. 

I  TREAD  by  night  the  silent  street 

With  weary  moan  ; 
The  helpless  prey  of  all  I  meet, — 

I'm  all  alone  ! 

I  scan  by  day  the  jostling  crowd, 

No  friend  I  own  : 
No  kindly  voice  salutes  me  loud,— 

I'm  all  alone  ! 

The  winds  awake  the  buds  of  spring, 

The  seeds  are  sown  ; 
No  spring  to  me  the  breezes  bring, — 

I'm  all  alone  ! 

Cold  winter  blasts  the  blossoms  kill, 

The  birds  are  flown  ; 
For  me  the  bitter  blight  and  chill,— 

I'm  all  alone  ! 


ALONE.  163 

I  starve  'mid  filthy  rags  and  dust, 

No  food — no  home  ; 
The  victim  of  man's  selfish  lust, — 

I'm  all  alone  ! 

No  voice  to  soothe  my  deep  distress 

.    With  gentle  tone  ; 
No  smile  to  cheer  my  bitterness, — 
I'm  all  alone  ! 

No  hand  my  fevered  brow  to  lave, 

Ere  life  be  flown  ; 
No  friend  to  lay  me  in  the  grave, — 

I'm  all  alone  ! 

I  bear  my  cross  in  agony, 

For  me  no  crown  ; 
Hell's  terrors  wait  me  when  I  die,— 

I'm  all  alone  ! 

O  world  !  why  was  I  ever  born, 

And  helpless  thrown, 
The  wretched  object  of  thy  scorn  ?  — 

I'm  all  alone  ! 

O  man  !  my  woes  are  naught  to  thee — • 

My  weary  moan  ; 
Thou  heedest  not  my  misery. 

I'm  all  alone  ! 


1 64  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

O  Christ  !  who  bless'd  the  Magdalene, 

Thou  kindly  One  ; 
Come,  bless  thy  erring  child  again,  — 

I'm  all  alone  ! 

O  God  !  my  cup  of  misery 

Is  overflown  ; 
Receive  my  parting  soul — I  die — 

Here — all  alone  ! 


THE   INNER   LIFE. 

I  MINGLE  with  the  trivial  crowd, 

The  gayest  of  the  gay  ; 
With  those  who  laugh  I  laugh  aloud, 

I  play  with  those  who  play. 

But  when  at  night  I  lonely  lie, 
And  commune  with  my  heart, 

I  feel  'tis  all  a  mockery — 
I  only  play  a  part. 

My  boon  companions  may  not  know 
The  secrets  of  my  breast ; 

Enough  for  them  the  idle  flow 
Of  merriment  and  jest. 


THE  FRUITS   OF  SORROW.  165 

But  deep  within  my  hidden  soul 

There  lies  a  holy  place, 
Where  wanton  footstep  fears  to  stroll, 

And  Folly  veils  her  face. 


THE   FRUITS   OF   SORROW. 

THE  pearl  that  gleams  on  beauty's  neck, 
To  secret  anguish  owes  its  birth  ; 

The  gems  which  grace  the  coronet, 
Were  born  amid  the  throes  of  earth. 

The  attar  which  the  rose  distils 
Proclaims  the  flower's  sure  decay  ; 

The  forest  songster  ever  trills 
Most  sweetly  on  his  dying  day. 

The  cruel  axe  must  gash  the  wood 
Before  the  healing  gums  may  flow  ; 

And  all  of  wise,  or  fair,  or  good, 
Is  sequent  to  some  hidden  woe. 


"WHERE  THE   LORDLY   HUDSON 
RIVER." 

WHERE  the  lordly  Hudson  river 
Rolleth  downward  to  the  sea  ; 

There  my  heart  abideth  ever, 
There  my  fancy  wanders  free  ; 

Ev'ry  ripple  on  its  bosom, — 
Ev'ry  drop  is  dear  to  me. 

Where  the  violets  are  growing 
'Neath  the  calm  and  stately  pine  ; 

Where,  in  wavy  masses  flowing, 

Droops  the  graceful  mountain  vine  ; 

Where  the  yellow  sunbeams  glowing, 
Cross  the  shadows  line  on  line. 

W7here  the  zephyrs,  softly  sighing, 
Woo  the  gently  purling  rills  ; 

Where  the  forest  songsters,  vying, 
Each  a  diff'rent  measure  trills  ; 

Where  the  echoes,  low  replying, 
Die  amid  the  distant  hills. 


AFLOAT.  167 

Where  the  skies  are  ever  changing, 

And  the  sunlight  never  fails  ; 
Where  the  eyes,  forever  ranging, 

Watch  the  thickly  studded  sails  ; 
At  every  glance  exchanging 

Wooded  hills  and  grassy  dales. 

Where  the  slanting  moonbeams  quiver, 
On  the  brawling  mountain  streams  ; 

Where  the  placid  flowing  river 
Like  a  thread  of  silver  gleams  ; 

O  my  heart  is  yearning  ever 

For  those  well  remember'd  scenes  ! 


AFLOAT. 

WITHIN  a  mighty  circle  bound, 
Whose  central  point  am  I  ; 

A  waste  of  waters  all  around, 
Above — a  world  of  sky. 

I  mark  the  lurid  sun  arise 

Each  morning  from  the  main ; 

I  see  him  daily  cross  the  skies 
To  meet  the  waves  again. 


1 68  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Anon,  like  Aphrodite,  born 
Amid  the  sounding  surge, 

I  watch  the  placid  moon  sail  on, 
And  sink  beneath  the  verge. 

The  glist'ning  stars  reflect  in  turn 
Their  glories  in  the  deep  ; 

For  me  alone  they  seem  to  burn, 
And  watchful  vigils  keep. 

The  misty  clouds  above  me  lie, 
And  shade  the  watery  plain  ; 

For  me  they  spread  their  canopy, 
Or  melt  in  gentle  rain. 

The  sighing  zephyrs  come  and  go, 

To  fill  my  flowing  sail  ; 
For  me  they  whisper  soft  and  low, 

Or  swell  the  rising  gale. 

Swift  flying  fish  with  sudden  bound 
Escape  some  danger  nigh  ; 

The  watchful  sea-gulls  circle  round — 
The  nautilus  sails  by. 

Around  me  unknown  forms  arise, 
And  spouting  monsters  sweep  ; 

All  hail  me  with  their  wondering  eyes,- 
A  welcome  to  the  deep. 


CLARIBEL.  169 

Tis  well — I'll  track  the  stormy  sea 

With  every  sail  unfurled  ; 
These  all  shall  my  companions  be, 

And  this,  my  only  world. 


CLARIBEL. 

CLARIBEL,  Claribel, 
She  it  is  that  I  love  well ; 
Chained  I  am  as  with  a  spell, 
By  a  glance  from  Claribel ! 

Claribel,  Claribel, 
Prithee,  prithee,  tell,  O  tell  ! 
Cruel  beauty,  what  the  spell, 
Binds  all  hearts  to  Claribel  ? 

Claribel,  Claribel, 
Name  to  peace  and  joy  a  knell, 
What  the  charm  you  use  so  well, 
All  are  slaves  to  Claribel  ? 

Claribel,  Claribel, 
Ev'ry  charm  is  thine  at  will, 
Sunshine  brightens  hill  and  dell, 
At  a  glance  from  Claribel ! 
8 


I/O  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Claribel,  Claribel, 
At  thy  name  my  pulses  thrill, 
I'd  live  for  ages  'neath  thy  spell, 
Dying,  whisper — Claribel  ! 

Claribel,  Claribel, 
She  it  is  that  I  love  well  : 
Chained  I  am  as  with  a  spell, 
By  a  glance  from  Claribel  ! 


THE  UNIVERSAL  EPITAPH. 

LIFE  !    Thou  art  bankrupt,  and  to  me 
A  debtor  must  thou  ever  be. 

I  ran  !    I  thought  life's  prize  to  gain, 
Of  joy,  with  pleasure's  smiling  train  ; 
Life  gave  me  sorrow,  link'd  to  pain. 

I  fought  !    Life's  promised  meed  to  win, 

A  robe  of  peace  to  wrap  me  in  ; 

Life  brought  me  conscience,  foul'd  by  sin. 

I  toiled  !     I  hoarded,  bought  and  sold, 
Grew  rich  in  houses,  lands  and  gold  ; 
Life  leaves  me  bare  six  feet  of  mould. 


THE  MILLS   OF   GOD.  17 1 

I  climb'd  !     I  sought  with  eager  breath 
Life's  guerdon,  Fame's  immortal  wreath ; 
Age  hurl'd  me  downward  unto  death. 

I  delv'd  !     In  Wisdom's  sacred  mine, 
I  sought  her  treasures  to  divine  ; 
With  empty  hands,  I  now  repine. 

I  soar'd  !     At  heaven's  eternal  throne 
My  restless  spirit  made  her  moan 
For  light.     I  lie  in  darkness  prone. 

Life  !     Thou  art  bankrupt,  and  to  me 

A  debtor  must  thou  ever  be. 

Fly  wanton,  for  I  plainly  see 

Thy  smiles  but  mask  thy  treachery  ; 

Come  Death — disclose  thy  stores  to  me. 


THE  MILLS  OF  GOD. 

GOD  is  just !  His  mills  grind  slowly, 
Often  seem  they  far  from  true  ; 

Yet  they  swerve  not ;  high  or  lowly, 
Each  receives  at  last  his  due. 

Would  ye  win  a  worthy  present 

At  the  mills  of  Deity  ? 
Know — both  peer  and  humble  peasant 

Under  one  dominion  lie. 


1/2  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Would  ye  reap  a  harvest  royal 
When  ye  gain  the  other  side  ? 

See  that  ev'ry  germ  is  loyal, 
See  that  every  seed  is  tried. 

Ever  glow  his  harvests  comely 
Who  preserves  a  thrifty  eye  ; 

Empty  stand  the  laggards  only 
Round  the  mills  of  Deity. 


LITTLE  BY  LITTLE. 

LITTLE  by  little  the  morning  breaks, 
Little  by  little  the  world  awakes. 

Little  by  little  the  sunbeams  shine, 
Little  by  little — line  on  line. 

Little  by  little  mounts  the  Sun, 
Little  by  little  to  sultry  noon. 

Little  by  little  the  shadows  grow, 
Little  by  little  they  lengthen  now. 

Little  by  little  the  sun  goes  down, 
Little  by  little  the  twilights  come. 

Little  by  little  the  night  creeps  on, 
Little  by  little, — Life's  day  is  done. 


SERVIA. 

GOD  of  grace  !     Can  these  be  human  ? 

Standing, — gazing  idly  on — 
Tortured  babes,  and  ravish'd  women, 

Burning  towns,  and  heaps  of  slain  ! 

Christ  of  mercy  !     Are  they  Christian  ? 

Balancing  within  the  scales — 
Infants'  skulls — and  commerce  Eastern, 

Headless  trunks — and  Turkish  bales  ! 

England  !  Is  thy  boasted  glory 
Buried  'neath  the  rust  of  peace  ? 

May  poor  Servia,  torn  and  gory, 
Sigh  in  vain  to  thee  for  ease  ? 

France  !  Of  old  thy  cross  of  fire 
Gleam'd  on  dome  and  minaret ; 

Now  the  crescent,  mounting  higher, 
Marks  that  cross  dishonor'd  set  ! 

Men  of  Europe  !     See  us  bleeding, 
Weary,  wounded,  and  forlorn  : 

Can  ye  mock  a  brother's  pleading, 
Flesh  of  flesh,  and  bone  of  bone  ? 


174  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Brothers — help  us  !     Help — ye  nations 
And  our  gratitude  receive  ; 

Seek  we  not  for  higher  station, 
All  we  ask  is — leave  to  live  ! 


LINES  UPON  A  FAGOT. 

THIS  fagot,  dead,  gives  forth  no  light, 
But  friction  will  a  spark  ignite  ; 
And  lo  !     Instead  of  lifeless  clay, 
A  living  torch  illumes  the  way. 

Thus,  tho'  thy  neighbor  seem  to  lie 
Enwrapp'd  in  sensuality, 
Some  latent  virtue  in  his  breast 
May  waken  still  at  thy  behest. 


TO  A  LAND-BIRD  AT  SEA. 

OFF  THE  COAST  OF  FLORIDA,   APRIL  24,   1877. 

WHEREFORE,  O  solitary  one  ! 
Hast  thou  forsook  the  shore  ; 
Upon  the  waves  to  wander  lone, 
To  list  the  night-wind's  sullen  moan, 
Old  Ocean's  mournful  monotone, 
The  tempest's  angry  roar  ? 


TO  A  LAND-BIRD  AT  SEA.  1/5 

Hath  Earth,  unhappy  bird,  for  thee, 
O'er  all  her  ample  breast  ; 
In  flowery  plain,  or  sheltering  tree, 
On  mountain  high,  in  valley  free, 
No  spot,  where  thou  contentedly 
May  bide  and  be  at  rest  ? 


Hast  thou  no  mate,  O  faithless  bird, 
Who  pines  for  thee  at  home  ; 
Whose  constant  heart  is  anguish  stirr'd, 
Whose  plaintive  voice  is  ever  heard, 
Still  mourning  for  her  absent  lord 
Who  heedlessly  doth  roam  ? 

Or  art  thou,  wretched  bird  like  me, 
A  spirit  desolate ; 

With  no  kind  breast  to  welcome  thee, 
No  voice  to  soothe  thy  misery, 
No  home  save  on  the  stormy  sea, 
No  friend  to  mourn  thy  fate  ? 

Then  welcome,  friendless  one,  we'll  roam 
Together  o'er  the  wave  ; 
We'll  bid  the  fiercest  tempests  come, 
We'll  plunge  amid  their  crests  of  foam, 
And  tho'  we  fail  to  find — a  home, 
We'll  haply  find — a  grave  ! 


THE  RESTLESS  SPRITE. 

A  DEMON  there  is  who  haunts  my  frame, 

Alike  by  day  and  by  night ; 
He  holds  mad  orgies  in  my  brain, 

He  causes  my  pulses  to  throb  and  flame, 
My  teeth  to  gnash  and  grind  with  pain, 

My  cheek  to  blanch  with  fright. 


He  comes  with  the  first  faint  tinge  of  dawn, 
He  broods  in  the  waning  light ; 

In  vain  I  fly,  like  the  startled  fawn, 

He  follows  me  fast  from  night  till  morn, 

Alike  in  sunshine,  alike  in  storm, 
From  morn  till  the  fall  of  night. 


I  hurry  about  from  place  to  place, 

Yet  never  escape  his  might ; 
O  !  when  shall  my  weary  soul  find  ease, 

Where,  where  shall  I  seek  for  a  resting-place  ? 
Ah  !     When  attain  to  blissful  peace, 

Peace  from  the  restless  sprite  ? 


LUCRECE. 

"Throwing  aside  his  assumed  disguise  of  idiocy,  and  taking  the 
dead  body  of  Lucrece,  Junius  Brutus  repaired  to  the  market-place, 
where,  brandishing  aloft  the  fatal  knife,  he  harangued  the  multitudes 
there  assembled,  and  incited  them  to  rise  against  the  Tarquins." — 
Roman  History, 

How  long,  Oh  Romans  !  will  ye  bow 
Your  necks  like  boughten  slaves, 
Unto  the  hated  tyrant's  yoke, 
And  tamely  weep  your  wrongs  ? 
How  long  shall  Tarquin's  venomed  brood 
Hold  sway  in  Rome,  and  scourge 
Your  naked  backs  with  scorpion  whips, 
And  shame  the  Roman  name  ? 

Behold  yon  beauteous,  bleeding  corpse  ! 
Ye  all  do  know  it  well ; 
'Twas  Collatine's  fair  bride,  Lucrece  ! 
For  virtue  famed  through  all  the  land  ; 
Acknowledg'd — "  First  of  Roman  dames  ;  " 
Her  soul,  disdainful,  dropt  this  robe. 
Foul'd  by  base  Tarquin's  hellish  lust, 
And  startled,  winged  its  trembling  flight 
To  Pluto's  deepest  shades  ;  where  plunged 
In  purging  fires,  it  mourns  her  fate, 
And  with  loud  cries  for  vengeance — wakes 
The  drowsy  ear  of  night. 


178  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Time  was  when  Roman's  fondest  boast 
Was  of  the  Roman  name, 
And  of  the  Romans'  deeds  ; — of  empires  won 
From  barb'rous  tribes ;  of  cities  ta'en  by  bold  as 
sault  ; 

And  tribute  laid  upon  a  conquer'd  world  ! 
And  we  did  vainly,  vainly  dream — 
Our  fathers'  blood  still  circled  thro'  our  veins, 
And  hoped  on  untried  fields  to  emulate  their  fame  ! 

Vain  dream  !     Vain  hope  !  your  fathers'  glaives 

Hang  rusting  on  your  walls  ; 

Your  shields  are  dentless,  save  the  scars 

Sustain'd  when  borne  by  them  ; 

Their  armor  weighs  you  down  ; 

Your  puny  limbs  refuse  the  weight 

'Twas  joy  to  them  to  bear, 

And  your  bent  brows  no  more  uphold 

The  Mural  crown  for  which  they  strove  ; 

But  lap'd  in  baleful  luxury  and  ease, 

Glory  forgot,  ye  sleep  a  deadly  sleep, 

Nor  dream  that — ye  are  slaves  ! 

But  hark  !     Whose  voice  ?     Who  cried — 

11  We  are  not  slaves,  but  Romans  still !  "  ? 

Who  shouted  "  Vengeance  on  the  tyrant  crew  !  "  ? 

Romans,  awake  !     Your  fathers'  blood 

Still  warms  your  veins,  their  martial  fire 

Still  prompts  to  daring  deeds  ! 


DIVES  AND   LAZARUS.  179 

Then  circle    round    this    bier,    draw    their   good 

swords, 
And  on  them  swear — that  Rome  shall  yet  be  free  ! 

O  !     Thou  Eternal  Jove  !  who  sit'st  in  state 

On  high  Olympus'  topmost  peak  ; 

And  from  thy  lofty  throne  dost  scan 

The  confines  of  the  world  ; 

O  !  ye  immortal  shades  of  our  dead  sires, 

Companions  of  the  gods  !     Thou  Sun  ! 

Who  light'st  the  day  by  Jove's  decree  ; 

And  all  ye  shining  heav'nly  host, 

Look  down,  and  hear  us  swear, — 

E'en  on  our  fathers'  swords, — 

And  on  this  gory  knife,  fresh  plucked  from  Lucrece' 

side, 
That  Tarquin  ne'er  again  shall  enter  Rome  ! 


DIVES  AND  LAZARUS. 

HOW  unequally  apportioned 
Appear  the  things  of  earth  ; 

By  no  design  proportioned 
Save  accident  or  birth. 

Proud  Insolence,  in  purple, 
Makes  ragged  Merit  wait ; 

And  Dives,  in  his  chariot, 
Sees  Lazarus  at  the  gate. 


ISO  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

It  may  be — error  blinded, 

We  fail  to  see  aright ; 
The  contest  looks  unequal, 

And  Right  seems  linked  to  Might. 

Yet  in  the  distant  future, 
May  come  reverse  of  fate  ; 

And  Lazarus,  in  the  chariot, 
Sees  Dives  at  the  gate. 


THE  SEA. 

NEW  ORLEANS  TO  NEW  YORK,  APRIL  23,   1877. 

THE  sea,  the  sea,  the  boundless  sea, 

I  love  its  waters  wild  and  free  ; 

With  its  crested  waves,  and  its  heaving  swells  ; 

With  its  secret  caves,  and  its  pearly  shells  ; 

With  its  mournful  moan,  and  its  mystery  ; 

O,  a  life  on  the  ocean  wave  for  me  ! 

The  sea,  the  sea,  the  boundless  sea, 

I  love  its  waters  wild  and  free ; 

With  its  wreaths  of  foam,  and  its  jets  of  spray, 

Where  the  sea-gulls  roam  and  the  dolphins  play ; 

With  its  ceaseless  rhyme,  and  its  melody, 

O,  a  life  on  the  ocean  wave  for  me ! 


"MULTUM  IN  PARFO."  l8l 

The  sea,  the  sea,  the  boundless  sea, 

I  love  its  waters  wild  and  free  ; 

With  its  bracing  air,  and  its  distant  verge  ; 

With  its  breezes  fair,  and  its  trackless  surge  ; 

With  its  merry  hum,  and  its  minstrelsy, 

O,  a  life  on  the  ocean  wave  for  me  ! 

The  sea,  the  sea,  the  boundless  sea, 

I  love  its  waters  wild  and  free  ; 

With  its  angry  roars,  and  its  sweeping  gales  ; 

With  its  broken  spars,  and  its  tatter'd  sails  ; 

Aye — with  all  its  tears,  and  its  misery, 

O,  a  life  on  the  ocean  wave  for  me  ! 


"MULTUM  IN  PARVO." 

To  an  unknown  fair  lady,  upon   presenting  her  with  a  hair-pin 
found  on  the  floor  at  a  "  Ladies'  Fair,"  Christmas,  1872. 

ACCEPT,  fair  maid,  this  trifling  gift, 

And  treasure  it  with  jealous  care, 
Till  Time,  the  thief,  with  ruthless  hand 

Shall  filch  thy  wealth  of  golden  hair. 

Then  thou  in  turn  wilt  rob  the  dead, 
And  cheat  the  ever  ravening  worm  ; 

Thy  tresses  now  are  turned  to  gold, 
Thy  gold  will  then  to  tresses  turn. 


1 82  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Tho'  aged  and  withered,  youthful  grace 

Thou'lt  still  affect  'neath  "  borrowed  plumes," 

And  flaunt  them  as  thine  own,  while  cold 
Their  owner  lies  amidst  the  tombs. 

Refuse  not  then  this  trifling  gift, 
Nor  let  disdain  o'ercloud  thy  face  ; 

'Twill  serve  in  future  years  to  keep 
Thy  purchased  honors  in  their  place. 


LIFE  AND   DEATH, 

AND  this  is  life  ! 

To  daily  tread 

A  daily  round 

For  daily  bread  ; 

Then  rot, 

Forgot, 

'Midst  countless  dead  ! 

And  this  is  death  ! 

On  Nature's  breast 

To  sink  to  rest 

In  slumber  blest ; 

Nor  tear, 

Nor  fear, 

To  mar  thy  rest ! 


THE   OLIVE  BRANCH. 

Lines  addressed  to  a  coquette  upon  hearing  her  sing,  to  music,  a 
song  composed  by  the  author. 

I. 

OF  old — the  Patriarch,  to  seek 

The  wished-for  land,  despatched  a  dove. 

Who  soon  returned, — within  his  beak 
The  olive-branch  of  kindly  love. 

Again  sent  forth,  the  weary  bird 

No  more  return'd, — but  booming  loud, 

Against  the  shore,  the  waves  were  heard 
While  burned  the  bow  upon  the  cloud. 

Anon — our  cruel  fathers  strove 

The  feathered  nations  to  decrease  ; 

They  took  the  olive-branch  of  love, 
And  shaped  it  like  the  bow  of  peace. 

The  fickle  shaft, — beneath,  above, 
Or  either  side, — still  wing'd  its  flight, 

Until  they  robbed  the  gentle  dove, 

And  tipped  it  with  his  plumage  bright. 


1 84  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

II. 
I  saw  thee, — deem'd  thee  kind — as  fair; 

I  came,  as  came  of  old  the  dove  ; 
I  brought  my  all, — a  tribute  rare 

To  thee, — the  olive  branch  of  love. 

Beguil'd,  I  spent  my  foolish  days 
To  watch  the  shining  Iris  rise  ; 

Or  mark  him  pale  his  burning  rays 
Within  the  Heaven  of  thine  eyes. 

Too  late,  I  find  my  pilfered  wing 

No  more  responds  my  weight  beneath  ; 

The  olive  branch  of  love  I  bring, 
By  thee  is  turn'd  a  bow  of  death. 

Thou  cruel  huntress  !  bent  on  ill, 

Since  tipp'd  thy  shaft  with  plume  of  mine  ; 

I  prithee — henceforth  try  thy  skill 
Upon  the  hearts  of  other  men  ! 


THE   SUICIDE. 

CEASE,  thou  mocking  demon, — leave  me  ! 

Wherefore  shouldst  thou  tempt  me  so  ? 
With  thy  ghostly  finger  ever 

Pointing  to  the  river's  flow  ; 
Where  the  slanting  moonbeams  quiver, 

And  the  shadows  come  and  go  ! 


THE  SUICIDE.  185 

O,  my  soul  is  bowed  with  anguish, 

And  my  heart  is  rent  with  pain  ; 
All  the  fever  steeds  of  madness 

Charge  in  squadrons  thro'  my  brain  ; 
Never  more  shall  joy  or  gladness, 

Win  from  me  a  smile  again  ! 

Not  one  ray  of  hope  falls  ever 

On  my  pathway  cold  and  bare  ; 
I  am  girt  with  bitter  sorrow, 

I  am  flank'd  by  grim  despair ; 
And  I  dread  each  coming  morrow 

With  its  cruel  load  of  care  ! 


I  have  sinn'd — thou  sayest  truly ! 

Fain  would  I  the  wrong  undo ; 
But  my  crimes  are  piled  to  Heaven, 

Rooted  deep  in  Hell  below  ; 
Would  to  God  !  'twere  kindly  given, 

Death  should  ease  me  of  my  woe  ! 


What  is  life,  that  I  should  linger  ? 

What  is  death,  that  I  should  shun  ? 
Tho'  my  years  should  reach  the  limit 

Of  man's  days  beneath  the  sun  ; 
Looking  back,  'twere  scarce  a  minute, 

Ere  their  sands  have  ceased  to  run  ! 


1 86  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Death  is  king  !  Alike  he  cometh 
To  the  coward  and  the  brave  ; 

Death  is  king !     Alike  he  standeth 
On  the  earth  and  on  the  wave  ; 

Death  is  king  !     Alike  commandeth 
He,  the  monarch  and  the  slave  ! 

Wherefore  live  ?     Is  life  so  lovely, 
With  its  daily  dower  of  strife  ? 

Dreams  of  joy  accomplished  never, 
Disappointment  alway  rife  ; — 

Tho'  the  heart  beat  on  forever, 
Mere  existence  is  not  life  ! 

Welcome  then,  thou  silent  river, 
With  thy  darkly  placid  flow  ; 

Where  the  slanting  moonbeams  quiver, 
Where  the  shadows  come  and  go  ; 

Fare  thee  well,  O  World  ;  forever  ; 
Death  shall  ease  me  of  my  woe  ! 


THE   LOVER'S    ORDEAL. 

I'VE  somewhere  read  in  ancient  story 
Of  a  Moorish  knight  and  lady  fair  ; 

He — the  first  in  martial  glory, 
Charming  she,  beyond  compare. 


THE  LOVERS   ORDEAL.  l8/ 

He  had  loved  her  long  and  vainly, 

More  than  all  the  world  beside ; 
But  the  haughty  maiden  plainly 

Scorned  him  in  her  wilful  pride. 

Passing  once,  in  dead  of  winter, 

Where  a  foaming  river  ran  ; 
Quoth  the  Donna  del  La  Minta, 

To  Count  Miguel  of  Cuzan. 

"  Count  !  Your  courage  is  undoubted 

In  the  thickest  of  the  fray  ; 
Whene'er  a  foe  is  to  be  routed, 
You  are  sure  to  lead  the  way. 

"Notwithstanding,  still  I  wonder, 

Would  you  dare  to  brave  the  din 
Of  yon  torrent's  deafening  thunder, 
If  I  bid  you  enter  in  ? 

"  Come,  Sir  Knight,  all  danger  spurning, 

Leap  your  horse  into  the  flood  ; 
If,  in  truth,  with  love  you're  burning, 
Faith,  the  bath  will  do  you  good." 

Upon  the  word,  the  knight  sprang  over, 
In  greaves  and  corselet  all  bedight ; 

By  my  troth  !  no  modern  lover 

Would  put  himself  in  such  a  plight. 


1 88  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Battling  with  the  billows  roaring, 
Girt  by  floating  ice  and  snow  ; 

To  the  maid  of  his  adoring 
Cried  this  mail-clad  Romeo. 

"  Lady,  tho'  the  frozen  torrent 

Chill  with  more  than  Arctic  cold  ; 
Love,  unquench'd,  in  fiery  current 
Burns  me  ever,  as  of  old. 

"Winter's  snowy  robe  may  cover 
Etna's  rage  or  Hecla's  glow  ; 
But  the  heart  of  faithful  lover 
Mocks  the  river's  icy  flow." 

Tis  said  the  maid,  at  last  relenting, 
Bade  him  bring  his  horse  to  land  ; 

And,  of  her  cruelty  repenting, 

Paid  the  Count  with  heart  and  hand. 

Thus  runs  this  old  heroic  story 

Of  the  knight  who  braved  the  tide  ; 

Had  I  been  he — that  maiden  surely, 
A  maiden  still  had  lived  and  died. 


HEROES  OF  '76. 

THEY  were  faithful,  steadfast,  loyal, 
To  their  country's  sacred  trust ; 

British  gold,  or  bay'nets  royal, 
Valued  they  no  more  than  dust. 

Faithful  through  the  roar  of  battle  ; 

Steadfast  in  the  hour  of  peace  ; 
Loyal,  till  Death's  warning  rattle 

Spake  each  spirit's  glad  release. 

Lost  to  life,  but  linked  to  glory  ! 

Time,  nor  change,  shall  mar  their  fame  ; 
Lives  in  song  each  oft-told  story, 

Lives  in  brass  each  well-known  name  ! 

Rest  !     Rest  in  peace,  ye  martyr'd  dead  ! 

In  marble  tomb,  or  mossy  grave  ; 
And  reck  not  of  the  sordid  brood 

Who  rob  the  land  ye  died  to  save  ! 

Hide,  Liberty,  thy  pallid  face  ! 

Columbia,  veil  thy  burning  brow  ! 
The  halls  those  patriots  erst  did  pace 

Are  trod  by  knaves  and  hucksters  now! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Why  ?     Why  should  Freedom's  sacred  sod 
Give  root  to  such  a  recreant  race  ? 

Up  !  Up  !  For  Liberty  and  God  ! 

And  hurl  each  miscreant  from  his  place  ! 


SKATING   GLEE. 

HAND  in  hand  we  merrily  go, 

Over  the  river  so  dark  below  ; 

Gliding,  sliding, 

Nowhere  biding, — 

Hand  in  hand  we  go  ! 

Ho  !  ho  !  merrily  go, 

Hand  in  hand,  hand  in  hand  ; 

Eyes  so  bright,  hearts  so  light, - 

Hand  in  hand  we  go  ! 

Hand  in  hand  we  merrily  go, 

Over  the  river  of  life  below  : 

Gliding,  sliding, 

Nowhere  biding, — • 

Hand  in  hand  we  go  ! 

Ho  !  ho  !  merrily  go, 

Hand  in  hand,  hand  in  hand ; 

Eyes  so  bright,  hearts  so  light, - 

Hand  in  hand  we  go  ! 


CUPID'S    MISSION. 

'TIS  said,  fair  maid,  that  at  thy  birth, 
Bright  Venus  sent  young  Cupid  down 
In  care  of  Time,  to  slay  the  child 
Whose  rumored  charms  outvied  her  own. 

She  dressed  the  young  god  in  his  best, 
And  furnished  him  with  bow  and  darts  ; 
Then,  cautioned  to  return  with  haste, 
Right  merrily — the  boy  departs. 

She  little  dreamed  that  aught  of  earth 
Could  tempt  him  from  celestial  things  ; 
But  thou  hast  snared  him  with  a  smile, 
While  Time,  the  thief,  has  stolen  his  wings. 

Time,  thus  equipped,  makes  double  speed, 
And  blithely  turns  his  tireless  glass, 
But  cruel  Cupid,  from  thine  eyes, 
Doth  wound  poor  mortals  as  they  pass. 

'Tis  whispered  thou  the  wound  canst  heal, 
Which  Cupid  gives  with  venomed  dart ; 
If  so,  kind  maid,  I  crave  thy  skill, 
His  arrow  rankles  in  my  heart. 


SPARKS  FROM  THE  ANVIL. 

SILENCE. 

IN  silence  lurks  a  majesty 
To  which  all  sound  a  mcckery  is  ; 
The  dignity  of  Deity 
Is  link'd  to  endless  silences. 

PURITY. 

The  crystal  drop,  shed  pure  at  birth, 
Will  not  contaminated  lie  ; 
It  seeks  a  higher  life  than  earth,— 
Its  native  Iris  in  the  sky. 

MORALITY. 

Who  vows  no  honest  people  live 
At  least  proclaims  himself  a  knave. 

NOBILITY. 

Equal  born  from  mother  Earth, 
Type  of  true  gentility, 
Find  we  not  in  place  nor  birth, 
But  in  mind's  nobility. 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 

"  REX  MORTUUS  EST  ;   VIVAT  REX  !  " 

Hark  !  the  bells  in  mournful  numbers 
Tolling  forth  the  midnight  hour  ; 

Tolling,  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

Tolling  from  the  ivied  tower  ; 
Telling  of  the  Old  Year  dying, 
Dying,  dying,  dying,  dying, 

Dying  at  the  midnight  hour. 

Hark  !  the  organ's  mournful  music 
Swelling  on  the  burdened  air; 

Swelling,  swelling,  swelling,  swelling, 

Requiems  for  the  dying  year  ; 
Filling  all  the  soul  with  sadness, 
Rising,  falling,  swelling,  dying, 

Calling  mortals  unto  prayer. 

Hark!  the  rhythm  of  the  voices, 
Falling  sadly  on  the  ear  ; 

Mourning,  mourning,  mourning,  mourning. 

Chanting  to  the  dying  year 
Symphonies  of  mournful  measure — 
Slowly,  solemnly,  mournfully  chanting 

Farewells  to  the  dying  year. 
9 


194  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Hark  !  they  change — the  bells  are  pealing, 

Pealing  forth  the  midnight  hour  ; 

Pealing,  pealing,  pealing,  pealing, 
Pealing  from  the  ivied  tower  ; 

Telling  of  the  New  Year  living, 

Living,  living,  living,  living, 

Living  at  the  midnight  hour. 

Hark  !  the  organ's  joyous  music 

Swelling  on  the  buoyant  air  ; 

Swelling,  swelling,  swelling,  swelling, 
Welcomes  to  the  glad  New  Year ; 

Filling  all  the  soul  with  gladness, 

Rising,  falling,  swelling,  pealing, 

Calling  men  to  praise  .and  prayer. 

Hark  !  the  rhythm  of  the  voices 

Falls  in  raptures  on  the  ear  ; 

Echoing,  echoing,  echoing,  echoing, 
Chanting  to  the  glad  New  Year 

Symphonies  of  joyous  measure — 

Joyfully,  cheerily,  merrily  chanting 
Welcomes  to  the  glad  New  Year. 

Join,  my  soul,  the  joyful  chorus  ! 

Add  thy  mite  of  grateful  praise  ; 

Praising,  praising,  praising,  praising, 
Praising  God  for  lengthened  days  ; 

Of  Him  who  crowns  the  year  with  gladness, 

Joyfully  to  mortals  telling 

All  His  goodness,  all  His  grace. 


FABLES. 


THE  BLIND  OWL. 

UPON  a  high  and  windy  tower, 

Which  hard  beside  the  roadway  lay  ; 

An  ancient  owl,  of  wit  and  power, 
Dozed  peacefully  from  day  to  day. 

An  owl  he  was  of  high  degree, 

His  larder  with  the  best  was  lined, 

His  fame  for  sage  philosophy 

Was  wide,  and  yet  the  bird  was  blind. 

When'er  he  took  the  morning  air, 
Or  sniff' d  the  breezes  of  the  night ; 

On  mountain  high,  in  valley  fair, 

He  walked  by  faith,  and  not  by  sight. 

This  matter  troubl'd  him  alone, — 
If  only  he  could  means  devise 

To  make  his  senses  left,  atone 
The  frailty  of  his  absent  eyes. 

At  last  he  hit  upon  a  plan 

Which  smack'd  at  least  of  novelty, 
'Twas  simply  this — whenever  man, 

Or  beast,  or  bird  should  pass  that  way- 


I98  FABLES. 

He  straight  from  off  his  windy  tower, 

Which  gave  him  fair  security, 
Should  hail  each  one  as  "  Black-a-moor !  " 

Then  listen  if  they  made  reply. 

It  chanc'd,  that  on  this  very  morn, 
The  squire  and  his  friends  were  bound 

1o  hunt  the  fox,  and  blast  of  horn 
Soon  mingled  with  the  cry  of  hound. 

The  fox  came  first.     With  hungry  eye 
He  mark'd  the  owl  upon  the  tower, 

Who  in  his  turn  set  up  a  cry 

And  shouted  loudly — "  Black-a-moor  !  " 

Sly  Reynard  growl'd  a  sharp  reply, 
Then  went  his  way  with  aspect  sour  ; 

"  It  is  the  barnyard  enemy." 

Observed  the  owl  upon  the  tower. 

Next  came  the  restless,  eager  hounds, 

All  baying  loud  the  scent  along  ; 
"  Ah!     These  are  dogs, — I  know  the  sound, "- 

Remark'd  the  owl,  and  held  his  tongue. 

Next  came  a  blooming  maiden  fair, 
Upon  a  horse  of  speed  and  power; 

Amazed,  the  lady  hears  the  air 

Resound  with  cries  of  "  Black-a-moor  !  " 


THE  BLIND    OWL.  199 

Her  mirthful  laughter  soon  repaid 

The  listening  owl  upon  the  tower  ; 
"  A  merry,  winsome,  charming  maid  ! 

I'm  bound,"  cried  he,  "  no  Black-a-moor  !  " 

Next  came  the  squire,  with  his  crowd 

Of  sporting  friends,  at  least  a  score  ; 
The  owl,  alert,  sang  clear  and  loud — 

"  Black-a-moor,  Black-a-moor,  moor,  moor  !  " 

A  jovial  laugh,  quick  circling  round, 

Soon  ended  in  a  general  roar  ; 
"  A  jolly  crowd,  I  judge  by  sound," 

Said  owl,  "  not  one  a  Black-a-moor  !." 

At  last  a  sooty  African 

Came  strolling  idly  by  the  tower  ; 
The  owl,  intent  upon  his  plan, 

Saluted  him  with — "  Black-a-moor  !  " 

Enrag'd  at  being  called  a  name 

Which  match'd  so  well  his  brow  of  night ; 
The  wretched  boor  took  deadly  aim, 

And  shot  the  owl,  who  in  affright 

Ask'd — wherefore  he  avenged  a  word 
Which  others  all  with  laughter  bore  ; 

"  Because,"  said  he,  "  thou  foolish  bird 
Didst  call  me  truly  '  Black-a-moor '  !  " 


200  FABLES. 

APPLICATION. 
Unfounded  squibs  'tis  safe  to  crack, 

These  scarcely  will  a  friend  estrange, 
But  ere  unpleasant  truths  you  speak 

Make  sure  that  you  are  out  of  range. 


THE  TEMPTED   DERVISE. 

AN  Eastern  caliph,  desiring  to  test 

The  virtue  of  a  certain  holy  priest, 

Or  Dervise  (thus  at  least  the  stories  tell), 

Sent  women,  nightly,  to  the  good  man's  cell. 

The  Dervise,  cased  in  sanctity  of  heart, 

Saw  each  approach,  and  each  in  turn  depart. 

He  barr'd  his  door,  and  from  the  casement  nigh, 

Would  read  them  many  a  bitter  homily, 

And  swore  by  Mahmoud's  beard  "  he  ne'er   had 

seen 

Women  so  brazen,  homely,  nor  so  lean." 
At  last  one  came, — a  very  sylph  in  grace, 
A  nymph  in  form,  a  houri  in  face  ; — 
The  Dervise  saw,  and  stood  entranced,  amaz'd, 
Now  called  on  Allah,  now  Mahomet  praised  ; 
Each  time  he  look'd,  his  weakness  he  upbraided, 
Each  time  he  look'd,  he  more  uncertain  stood  ; 
At  last  quoth  he — "  I  now  am  quite  persuaded 
The  voice  of  Nature  is  the  voice  of  God." 


THE  DERVISE  AND  THE  DWARF. 

A  DERVISE,  stalwart,  but  of  temper  mild, 
While  traveling  thro'  a  stern  and  rugged  wild, 
O'ertook  a  puny  dwarf,  of  visage  lean, 
Of  servile  bearing,  and  most  abject  mien. 
They  journeyed  on  in  friendly  intercourse, 
And  reached  a  stream,  which  both  essayed  to  cross. 
The  hardy  Dervise  gained  the  further  side, 
The  wretched  dwarf,  swept  downward  by  the  tide, 
Had  surely  perished,  but  for  helping  hand 
His  comrade  lent,  to  bear  him  safe  to  land. 
Removed — the  terrors  of  impending  death, 
The  crafty  elf,  with  hypocritic  breath, 
Extolled  his  rescuer  to  the  listening  air, 
And  quite  o'erpowered  him  with  speeches  fair. 
So  vapored  he  of — "  beauty,  grace,  and  strength — 
The  Dervise  ask'd  him  suddenly  at  length — 
How  long  he  thought  his  gratitude  would  last ; 
"  Why  truly,"  said  the  dwarf,  "  until  is  pass'd 
A  ford  beyond,  more  perilous  by  far, 
Than  that  which  late  appall'd  me  with  its  roar." 
9* 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


PLATONIC  PHILOSOPHY. 

The  Greek  philosopher  Plato  is  said  to  have  advocated  the  the 
ory  that  each  soul  at  birth  (whether  male  or  female)  is  but  the  half 
of  a  perfect  whole,  and  as  such  is  doomed  to  wander  in  solitude  and 
isolation  through  an  infinity  of  successive  existences  until  it  shall 
finally  meet  and  unite  with  its  own  proper  and  divinely  appointed 
companion. 

BY  the  system  Platonic 

(Tho'  it  seems  rather  comic) 
Each  soul  is  a  half  cut  asunder  by  fate  ; 

Condemned  to  go  sighing, 

And  crying,  and  prying, 
Until,  by  some  chance,  it  shall  meet  with  its  mate. 

If  you  halve  a  tomato, 

A  pear,  or  potato, 

The  halves  will  match  neatly  again  when  they're 
joined ; 

But  if  you  should  grapple 

Either  one  to  an  apple, 
The  point  of  connection  were  surely  defin'd. 


206  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

Apart  from  me  riven 

By  cruel  fate  driven, 
My  other  half  wanders  alone  o'er  the  earth  ; 

If  any  should  meet  her 

I  wish  they  would  greet  her 
And  say  that  I've  sought  her  in  vain  from  my  birth. 


EVOLUTION  AND  INVOLUTION. 

A  LEARNED  scientist,  with  great  resolution, 
Has  propounded  the  theory  of  man's  evolution  ; 
"  With  a  jelly-like  substance  his  structure  began, 
Then — a  monad, — a  monkey, — and  finally — MAN." 

Here,  in  brief,  is  a  chart  of  all  human  progression, 
But  what  are  the  chances  of  man's  retrogression  ? 
If  he  sprang  from  a  monkey,  then  'tis  certainly  plain 
He,  in  time,  may  return  to  that  status  again. 

Apply  the  same  rule,  and  we  know  to  our  sorrow, 
That  monkeys  to-day,  may  be  monads  to-morrow  ; 
And,  this  axiom  granted,  why — we  very  soon  learn — 
That  monads — to  jelly,  may  shortly  return. 

Now,  so  many  "  man-monkeys  "  we  everywhere  see 
Who  disgrace,  e'en  that  branch  of  their  family-tree  ; 
'Tis  quite  startling  to  think  on — how  very  soon — 

really, 
These  may  wiggle — as  monads, — or  quiver — as  jelly. 


EPITAPH  ON  JACK  NEVILLE. 

HERE  lies  the  body  of  Jonathan  Neville, 

Who  bowed  to  the  Lord  and  bobbed  to  the  devil : 

Between  the  two,  he  has  hedged  so  well, 

If  he  fails  of  Heaven,  he's  sure  of  H-ll. 


THAT  BABY. 

IT  was  born,  it  was  washed,  it  was  weighed,  it  was 

fed, 

It  was  diapered,  bandaged,  and  put  into  bed  ; 
It  was  carried,  and  wheeled,  it  was  cradled  and 

rock'd, 
It   was  ribbon'd,   and   laced,  it  was   booted,    and 

sock'd  ; 
It  was  church'd,  it  was  sponsor'd,  and  sprinkled, 

and  named, 
It  was  talked,  it  was  published,  and  preached,  and 

proclaimed  ; 
It  was   looked  at,  and   wondered   at,  praised  and 

admired, 

It  was  played  with,  and  dandled,  until  it  was  tired  : 
It  was  fondled  and  flattered,  and  kissed  and  caress'd, 
It  was  toasted  and  written,  pray'd  over  and  bless'd  ; 
It  was  doctored  and  dosed,  it  was  potioned  and  pill'd, 
It  was  taken  such  care  of,  that  at  last  it  was  killed. 


INDIAN  LADDER. 

CARE  eschewing,  merry-hearted, 

We,  a  blithesome  party,  started 

Bright  and  early  on  a  morning  in  the  leafy  month 

of  June  ; 

Bound  to  climb  the  "  Indian  ladder," 
Health  and  happiness  to  gather, 
Where  the  rock-embattled  Helderbergs  thro'  hazy 

distance  loom. 

'Mongst  the  ladies  (counting  seven), 

There  were  weights  and  waists  uneven, 

There  were  eyes  of  starry  midnight,  and  of  soft, 

celestial  blue  ; 

There  were  tresses  black  as  raven, 
There  were  locks  of  golden  levin, 
There  were  lips  like  ripened  cherries  under  brows 

of  driven  snow. 

#  #  #  *  *  *  * 

O  !  the  puffing  and  the  sweating, 

O  !  the  scrambling  and  the  getting, 

O  !  the  scratching  sand  and  gravel  up  such  steep, 

inclined  planes  ; 
O  !  the  laws  of  gravitation, 
O  !  the  pull-backs,  now  in  fashion, 
O  !  the  tiny  "  number  sixes  "  on  the  feet  that  called 

for  "  tens." 


INDIAN  LADDER.  2OO, 

But  at  last  our  toil  was  over, 

Man  and  wife,  and  maid  and  lover, 

By  dint  of  great  exertion  mounted  safely  to  the  top  ; 

By  the  mountain  lake  reclining, 

We  resigned  ourselves  to  dining, 

And  the  scientific  question  : — "  Why  don't 's 

"torpedoes"  *  pop  ? 

Well,  the  "spread"  was  "just  tremendous," 
And  we  prayed  that  Heaven  would  send  us, 
Each  the  appetite  of  cormorant,  with  the  throat  of  a 

giraffe  ; 

We  gormandized  and  feasted, 
Till  our  stomachs  all  protested, 
"They  must  strike  for  higher  wages  if  we  didn't 

soon  leave  off." 


When  the  meal  was  at  an  ending, 

It  was  really  quite  heartrending 

To  see  the   piteous   efforts    made  to    rise,   by  all 

around  ; 

As  each  one  in  turn  upstarted, 
Every  waistcoat  button  parted, — 
And  e'en  the  leanest  of  the  party  had  to  roll  along 

the  ground, 

*  Bottles  of  wine. 


2IO  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

And  the  ladies  ;  well  I  trembled, 
Just  to  see  how  they  dissembled, 
Each  pretending  that  her  dinner  "  was  really  hardly 

worth  the  name  ;  " 
O  !  like  Eve,  their  mother  subtle, 
They  would  ever  eat  the  apple, 
Then  the  core  they'd  give  to  Adam,  and  make  him 

bear  all  the  blame. 


O  !  the  walking  and  the  rowing, 

O  !  the  billing  and  the  cooing, 

O  !  the  countless  empty  bottles  floating  wildly  on 

the  lake  ; 

O  !  the  jolly  drive  returning — 
But  how  strange  it  was  next  morning, 
To   hear   each   one   complaining,    "I've  an  aivful 

stomach-ache  !  " 


THE  NIGGER  MEETIN'. 

Now,  brederin  an'  sisters,  de  singin'  bein'  done, 
I'se  trubble  Brudder  Johnsen  jest  ter  pass  de  hat 

aroun'  ; 
An'  youse  please  not  disremember,  w'en  you  drops 

de  money  in, 
Dat  de  Lord  ain't  usin'  buttens,  nor  a  needin'  bits 

ob  tin. 


THE  NIGGER  ME E TIN.  1 1I 

We  is  tole  in  dis  yere  Bible  dat  we  shouldn't  neb- 

ber  fail 
Ter  store  our  gold  and  silber  where  de  morf  cannot 

assail ; 
But  dere   ain't  no  obserwashun,   dat  I  hab   ebber 

foun' 
'Bout  stowin'  worn  out  buttens  w'en  de  hat's  agoin' 

roun'. 
Dere  ain't  no  use  a  tryin',  fr'en's,  to  cheat  de  mi'ty 

Lord, 
So,  brudder,  please  to  pass  de  hat,  while  I  expoun' 

de  Word. 

Now,  'bout  dis  yer  elecshun,  fr'en's,  I'se  got  a  word 

ter  say, 
Do'  I'se  rarder  be  a  tellin'   ob   de  grate  elecshun 

day  ! 
W'en  de  flocks  will  all  be  gaddered  from  de  nations 

far  and  wide, 
De  sheep  upon  de  right  han',  an  de  goats  de  oder 

side  ; 
W'en  de  sheep  shall  soar  to  Hebben  wid  dere  wool 

all  clean  an'  wite, 
An'   de  goats,   all   unforgibben,   shall  be  banished 

from  de  sight  ; 
Wen  de  angels  all  .assembled  in  de  shining  courts 

above, — 
De   Lord  will  fix  his  eye  upon  dat  nigger  by  de 

stove, 


212  HUMOROUS   POEMS. 

An'  say — "Jim  Moses,  you  is  doomed  ter  eberlast- 

in'  woe 
For  puttin'  buttens  in  de  hat  w'en  you  was  down 

below." 

De  Lord's  no  politishun,  an'  don't  hold  to  needer 

side, 
But  I'se  say  ter  dem  dat's  t'inkin'  dis  yere  nigger's 

tongue  is  tied, — 
Dere's  a  heep  ob  people  gettin'  rich  jest  alettin'  ob 

alone 
All  de  oder  people's  business  an'  attendin'  ter  dere 

own. 
For  youse  can't  begin  ter  hoe  yer  row,  an'  keep  de 

cotten  free, 

If  youse  constantly  a  watchin'  ob  a  possum  up  a  tree  ; 
An'  do'  eventerly  yer  should  dat  self-same  possum 

skin, 
Yet  de  bolls    ul  like  be  sheddin'  fore    de    cotten's 

gaddered  in. 
Dere  ain't  no  use  a  sayin',  fr'en's,  you'se  rarder 

hunt  dan  hoe, 
You'se  make  a  heap  more  money  jest  a  stickin'  ter 

yer  row. 

Now,  de  Debbie's  mi'ty  crafty  w'en  he's  huntin'  ob 

his  prey, 
An'  he  nebber  take  a  wite  man  w'en  a  nigger's  in 

de  way ; 


THE  NIGGER  MEET  IN*.     .  213 

For  do'  de  fust,  yer  see,  by  grace,  may  chance  ter 

win  de  sky, 
De  Lord  hab  marked  de  culler'd  race  a  mark  ter 

know  dem  by, 
An'   wile    ole  Saten,  eny  day,   a  wite  man's   soul 

may  steal, 
It's  most  a  monf  ob  Sundays  'fore  he  gets  a  culler'd 

meal. 
So  take  my  'dvice,  belubbed  fr'en's,  an'  w'en  he's 

kite'n  roun' 
Jest  pray  unto  de  bressed  Lord,  an'  nebber  look 

aroun'. 

De  Debbie  eber  chuckles  w'en  a  nigger  leabes  his  row, 
An'  w'en  he  takes  to  polytics,  he  books  him  down 

below. 

Dere  was  once,  belubbed  yeerers,  in  a  berry  deep 
lagoon, 

A  monster  alligater  dat  was  cunnin'  as  a  coon  ; 

But  bein'  mortal  lazy,  he  got  so  berry  thin, 

Dat  his  fr'en's  at  last  persuaded  him  to  call  de  doc 
tor  in. 

Well,  de  doctor  came  an',  felt  his  pulse,  an'  sed  he'd 
better  take 

A  little  debbled  nigger  for  his  preshus  stomach's 
sake  ; 

An'  de  alligater,  not'ing  loth,  begun  ter  try  an'  t'ink 

How  ter  catch  sum  little  niggers  dat  was  playin' 
near  de  brink  ; 


214  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

So   berry  soon  he  'costed  dem,   an'   in  a  'umble 

voice, 
Sed  he'd  like  to  hab  de  honer  fur   ter  ferry  dem 

across. 

Now  dem  niggers,  feelin'  flatter'd,  dey  in  conse 
quence  was  weak, 

So  dey  quite  forgot  how  strange  it  was  ter  hear  de 
critter  speak, 

An'  at  last  was  quite  persuaded  dey  would  like  ter 
take  a  ride 

Upon  dat  alligater's  back  unto  de  oder  side. 

Dem  foolish  niggers  once  afloat  soon  knew  de  cruel 
sell; 

De  critter  call'd  hisself  a  boat,  but  prob'd  a  dibeing 
bell. 

De  angry  waters  closed  above  dem  little  niggers' 
woe, 

An'  de  alligater  fattened  on  dere  corpses  down  be 
low. 

Dem  simple  darkeys  lost  dere  libes  tru'  listenin' 
flattery, 

An'  dus  de  Debbie  eber  thribes  by  foolish  nigger's 
vanity. 

Now,    fr'en's,    de   applicashun,    an'    I    reckin    I    is    • 

done, 
It   is  dis,  belubbed    yeerers, — jest  "let  well    enuf 

alone." 


THE  NIGGER   MEETIN\  21$ 

Ef  by  holdin'  fast   unto   de  bank  you'se  can  keep 

yerselves  afloat, 
Don't  go  paddlin'  on  de  ribber  in  a  questionable 

boat. 
Ef  wid  only  corn  an'  baken  yer  makes  out  ter  pay 

yer  way, 
Don't  go  cravin'   chickin   fixin's   an'   fried  possum 

ebery  day. 
Ef  de  plow's  yer  true  posishun,  dat's  assi'ned  ter 

yer  by  fate, 
Don't    turn    a    politishun,   an'   go   stumpin'   ob    de 

State  ; 
An'  w'en  some  wily  flat'rer  would  try  ter  gain  yer 

wote, 
Jest    t'ink   ob   dem    poor  niggers   on   dat  alligater 

boat. 


FEEJEE   ISLAND. 

THERE'S  a  curious  island — 'way  out  in  the  sea, 
Which  goes  by  the  name  of  "  The  isle  of  Feejee," 
Where  the  good  people  all  are  so  highly  genteel, 
They  are  frigid  as  icebergs  and  polished  as  steel ; 
And  each  one  is  possessed  with  a  proper  ambition 
To  consort  with  no  other   'neath    his   own    condi 
tion. 
Thus  the  street-cleaner,  knee-deep  in  mud  at  his 

toil, 

Will  not  speak  to  the  cart-man,  who  carries  night- 
soil  ; 
And   the    newsboy,   who   sells   you  the  five    cent 

gazette, 
Won't  be  seen  with  the  orange-boy,  "  three  for  a 

bit :  " 

And  the  orange-boy,  mindful  of  place  in  his  turn, 
Affects  not  to  notice — "  Shine,  five  cents  a  shine." 
While  Mrs.  Greengrocer  says,  "Ah!  you  forget, 
Mrs.    B.'s  husband's   a  butcher,    she's   not  in   our 
set:" 


FEEJEE  ISLAND.  2 1/ 

And  Mrs.  B.,  smiling,  "Why,  who  ever  heard? 
What ! — me  call  on  a  cobbler's  wife  ?     Well,  that  is 

absurd  !  " 

And  Mrs.  Dry-goods-man  says,  "  Oh  !   Fin  afeard 
My  gals  'ull  grow  vulger  before  they  is  reeredj 
For  them  coal-dealer's  children  'ull  larn  'em  to  speak 
Sech  barb'rus  Inglish,  'sted  of  Laten  an  Greek." 
Where  the  wife  of  the  lawyer,  in  satin  and  lace, 
Despises  the  shop  girl's  one  calico  dress  ; 
And  the  minister's  wife,  in  her  rich  purple  gown, 
Looks  with  scorn  on  the  seamstress  all  faded  and 

brown, 
Where,  in  truth,  one  and  all,  like  the  Hebrews  of 

old, 

Ever  fall  down  and  worship  the  calf  made  of  gold 
Such  very  strange  customs  prevail  in  "  Feejee," 
This  curious  island — 'way  out  in  the  sea. 

In  this  curious  island,  if  the  truth  must  be  told, 
The  roads  to  distinction  are  all  paved  with  gold  ; 
And  "  King  Midas,"  exultant,  forever  uprears 
A  head,  void  of  brains,  but  with  wonderful  ears  ; 
He's  the  cultured  and  noble,  and  he  shall  be  first 
Who  has   got  the   "  spondulex "  and  comes  down 

with  the  "dust." 

The  results  of  this  passion  are  everywhere  seen, 
For  the  highest  and  lowest,  the  fat  and  the  lean, 
Priest,  deacon  and  sexton,  the  young  and  the  old, 
Are  running  a  race  for  a  sweepstakes  of  gold  ; 

10 


2l8  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

They  tug  and  they  strain  from  their  birth  till  their 

death, 

Nor  give  up  the  race  till  they  give  up  their  breath. 
At  the  start,  at  the  goal,  are  two  different  things — 
Then,  an  ox  at  the  plow ;  now,  an  eagle  with 

wings  : 
Then    a    "noodle,"    a   "  lumex,"    a    "fool,"   or  a 

"  fright," 

Now,  a  "  marvel  of  wit  "  or  an  "  angel  of  light  ;  " 
Then,    a   creature   to    frown   at,    to    spit   on,   and 

scorn, 

Now,  a  potentate  mighty,  to  flatter  and  fawn. 
A  carriage  and  horses,  a  mansion  of  stone, 
A  legion  of  servants,  a  place  out  of  town  ; 
In  some  fashionable  church  a  magnificent  seat, 
Periodical  dinners,  with  plenty  to  eat  ; 
A  box  at  the  opera,  a  wardrobe  immense, 
Will  ensure  the  respect  that  is  due  to  a  prince  ; 
But  if  any  one  fail  to  attain  to  this  level, 
He   may   take    his    departure    and — "  go    to    the 

devil." 

Such  very  strange  customs  prevail  in  "  Feejee," 
This  curious  island — 'way  out  in  the  sea. 

In  our  studies  of  nature,  we  wondering  learn, 
That  a  butterfly  bright,  from  a  maggot  is  born  ; 
But   more  wonderful  far   is  the  change  that  takes 

place 
Between  the  beginning  and  end  of  this  race, 


FEEJEE  ISLAND.  21$ 

Which  is  constantly  run  in  "  the  isle  of  Feejee," 

This  curious  island — 'way  out  in  the  sea. 

Thus  the  milkman,   grown   rich,    will   new   honors 

attain, 
And  through  peddling  skim  milk,  becomes  "  creme 

de  la  creme." 
Thus    a    cobbler   with    money,    when    shaven    and 

clean, 
Is    flattered    and    courted    and    classed     "  Upper 

ten." 
Thus  the  tailor,  who  cross-legged  once  sat  at  his 

board, 
Now  wealthy,  is  "buttoned"   for  a   shake   and   a 

word. 
Thus  the  boot-black,  who,  "  shining,"  to  opulence 

rose, 

Now  outshines  all  the  rest  in  magnificent  clothes. 
Thus  the    hod-man,    who   mounted    the    ladder  of 

old, 

Now  mounts  to  a  carriage  with  bearings  of  gold. 
Thus  the  man  who  "fresh  peanuts"  once  roasted 

and  vended, 

Now  walks  past  his  old  corner  by  lackeys  attended. 
Thus  "  Michael,"  the  ditcher,  having  shouldered  his 

spade, 

Is  a  Colonel,  full-fledged,  and  appears  on  parade. 
Thus    "  Cavanagh "    (Patrick),    of    the    stevedore 

clan, 
Is  now  "  Monsieur  Cavana — such  an  elegant  m 


22O  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

While  "  Muggins,"  the  barber,  having  laid  down 

his  hone, 

.Becomes  "  Senor  Magona,  the  Italian  bon  ton." 
Thus  Dives  e'er  fattens  in  splendor  and  state, 
While  Lazarus  starves  with  the  curs  at  the  gate — 
Such  very  strange  customs  prevail  in  "  Feejee," 
This  curious  island — 'way  out  in  the  sea. 

If  to  visit  this  island  should  be  your  intention, 
The  following  facts  should  receive  due  attention  : 
Though  the  people  may  strike  you  as  vulgar  and 

rude, 
Yet  they  pride   themselves  highly   on   their    "  old 

Feejeean  blood  ;  " 

And  the  line  of  their  ped'grees  manage  to  climb, 
In  some  few  cases,  clear  back  to  their  grandfather's 

time  ; 

But  if  they  should  happen  so  high  to  ascend, 
They  take  good  care  not  to  mention  the  "  wax"  at 

the  end. 

If  you  chance  on  a  lady  "  Feejeean  "  to  call, 
And   are  poor,  she'll  try  hard  to  make  you    feel 

small, 

By  remarking  "  some  people  became  so  intrusive  ; 
Do  you  know,  Our  Feejean  society  is  very  exclu 
sive  ?  " 
But    if  you    are    rich,     she    will    bow,    and    she'll 

cringe, 
As  tho'  every  vertebra  worked  on  a  hinge. 


FEEJEE  ISLAND.  221 

It  boots  not  to  them  how  your  wealth  was  attained. 
The  question  is  only — has  it  with  you  remained  ? 
If  a  blackleg,  a  gambler,  a  pimp,  or  a  thief, 
Just  cover  your  character  thick  with  gold  leaf, 
Tho'  your  sins  be  as  scarlet,  the  "  Feejeeans  "  will 

vow, 
If  you've   only  got  money,  you're  as   spotless   as 

snow. 
The  bankrupt,  who  keeps  a  brown  stone  o'er  his 

head, 
The    defaulter,    who    robs    the    poor    widow    of 

bread  ; 
The    Statesman,   who   plunders   the   funds  of  the 

State, 

The  lobbyist,  purchasing  fraudulent  votes — 
Any  rogue,  who  can  manage  his  spoils  to  retain, 
Among    the     "  Feejeeans,"    is     "  creme    de     la 

creme  ;  " 

Such  very  strange  customs  prevail  in  "  Feejee," 
This  curious  island — 'way  out  in  the  sea. 

In  this  curious  island,  'tis  a  fact  for  elation, 
That  the  people  are  all  of  the  "  Christian  "  per 
suasion  ; 

That  Sunday  by  Sunday,  they  service  attend, 
And  on  weekly  prayer  meetings  without  any  end  ; 
In    their    silks    and    their    satins,    their    laces    and 

bows, 
Their  lavender  kids,  and  their  grand  furbelows. 


222  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

Here,  with  gold-lettered  prayer-books,  are  every 
where  seen, 

The  modern  disciples  of  the  "poor  Nazarene;  " 
As  with  lack  lustre  eyes,  His  story  they  read, 
Who  was  born  in  a  manger,  and  fasted  and  bled  ; 
Whose  home  was  the  desert,  and  lowly  His  life, 
"  The  Man  known  to  sorrow,  and  acquainted  with 

grief." 

Here,  with  heads  slowly  nodding  in  drowsy  condi 
tion, 

They  murmur    young  "Johnny's"  unselfish  peti 
tion — 

"  Save  Johnny,  and  papa,  and  mamma,  and — well 
I'm  sleepy,  Good  Lord,  send  all  others  to  hell." 
Here  the  priest  ever  mumbles,  and  mouths,  and 

intones, 
While  the  people  respond  with  loud  sighs  and  deep 

groans  ; 

Then  sallying  forth  from  the  church  to  the  street, 
They  rehearse  some  new  scandal  to  all  that  they 

meet ; 
On  some  neighbor's  fair  fame  the  quick  changes  are 

rung, 

And  the  sweet  morsels  roll  glibly  over  each  tongue. 
"  Do  you  know,  Mrs.  B.  has  been  seen  to  address 
A  note,  all  sealed  up,  to  tJiat  old  roue,  S — —  ? 
Poor  B.,  how  I  pity  him — well,  I  am  sure, 
We  should  thank  the  good  Lord,  we  at  least  are 
kept  pure." 


FEEJEE   ISLAND.  22 3 

Such  very  strange  customs  prevail  in  "  Feejee," 
This  curious  island — ?way  out  in  the  sea. 

If  you  chance  to  go  courting  a  lady  "  Feejee," 
.She  will  hug  you,  and  kiss  you,   and  sit  on  your 

knee  ; 
And  e'en  weightier  favors  should    you  happen  to 

choose, 
Why,  'twere  the  height  of  bad  manners  of  course  to 

refuse  ; 

And  yet,  these  same  ladies  are  so  modest  withal, 
They  will  blush  at  the  name  of  a  mere  animal. 
Thus,  to  mention  "  a  mare,"  will  their  quick  color 

bring, 

And  "  a  stallion,"  O,  my  !     'Tis  a  horrible  thing  ! 
Thus,  "  a  cock"  is  "  a  rooster"  "  a  he  "  "  a  male 

hen  ;  " 

And  to  speak  of  "  a  boar  "  were  the  grossest  of  sin  ; 
Female  kine  you  may  talk  of,  but  mark  me — I  vow, 
"  A  bull "  is  known  here  as  "  a  gentleman  cow." 
A  male  bird  is  "  a  singer ,"  "  a  ewe  "  is  unknown, 
And  the  mere  name  of"  ram  "  would  convert  them 

to  stone ; 

"  A  leg  is  "  a  stepper,"  "  a  flyer  "  "a  wing," 
While    the    generic    name    for    them    both    is    "  a 

limb;" 

The  "  breast "  of  a  fowl  no  "  Feejeean  "  will  eat, 
She   will  take,    if  you  please,  just  a  little  "  white 

meat ;  " 


224  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

Though   cleanly   in   habit,    you  are  doomed   unto 

wrath, 
If  a   lady  there   present   you   should  mention   "  a 

bath." 

In  crossing  a  roadway  their  skirts  they  will  raise, 
Till   your   eyes   are  bewildered  with  edgings  and 

lace  ; 

With  ankles,  with  hose,  with  elastics,  with — well, 
To  mention  e'er  one  would  consign  you  to  h-11. 
All  the  senses  but  one  may  be  keenly  alive, 
But  mind  how  you  talk,  or  at  grief  you'll  arrive. 
Such  very  strange  customs  prevail  in  "  Feejee," 
This  curious  island — 'way  out  in  the  sea. 

In  this  curious  island — 'way  out  in  the  sea, 

The  fashions  are  set  by  some  wealthy  "  Feejee," 

Then  all  the  small  minnows,  with  flipper  and  tail, 

Follow  fast  in  the  wake  of  their  leader,  the  whale  ; 

They  copy  his  bearing,  the  cut  of  his  clothes, 

And  even  the  manner  of  blowing  his  nose. 

What  he  frowns  on  is  wrong,  what  he  smiles  at  is 

right  ; 

If  he  said  so,  they'd  swear  that  a  raven  was  white  ; 
'Tis  music  most  heavenly  to  hear  his  boots  squeak, 
And  the  hand  that  he  shakes  goes  unwashed  for  a 

week  ; 

While  the  fortunate  mortal  who  receives  such  ad 
dress, 
Boasts  aloud  ever  after,  of  "  my  friend,  Mr.  S ." 


FEEJEE  ISLAND.  22$ 

The  fashions  once  set,  they  remain  in  full  force 
Till  the  whale  find  it  convenient  to  alter  his  course  ; 
Then   the    minnows,    still    swimming  along  by  his 

side, 

Will  extol  the  same  act  which  they  lately  decried  ; 
For  from    anything  sanctioned  by  the  fashionable 

whale, 

No  aspiring  minnow  will  dare  to  turn  tail  ; 
Independence  of  action  is  wholly  unknown, 
And  no  minnow  so  reckless  as — "  go  it  alone." 
Thus,  when  Sunday  is  come,  for  a  drive  you  may 

go- 
But,    to   ride  out    on    horseback,    "  'tis    decidedly 

low  ;  " 

At  the  opera,  you  may  have  a  balcony  chair, 
At  the  theatre,  never,  as  you  value  your  hair  ; 
No  fashionable  minnow  ever  looks  at  a  play, 
Unless  seated  securely  within  "  the  parquet." 
Such  very  strange  customs  prevail  in  "  Feejee," 
This  curious  island — 'way  out  in  the  sea. 

In  this  curious  island,  when  a  funeral  takes  place, 
The  neighbors  thereto  will  immediately  race. 
For  among  the  "  Feejeeans,'J  a  funeral,  you  know, 
Is  much  the  same  thing  as  a  circus  or  show. 
Where  inquisitive  people  go  to  gaze  on  the  corse, 
To  ogle  the  mourners,  and  follow  the  hearse. 
For  the  carriages,  being  all  cushioned  inside, 
A  funeral  gives  quite  an  enjoyable  ride  ; 


226  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

And,  the  cavalcade  started,  the  ones  that  are  left, 

Will  examine  the  furniture,  and  condole  the  bereft  ; 

Each  professional  funeral  follower  knows 

The  exact  value  of  furniture,  carpets  and  clothes  ; 

And  this  estimate  made,  'twill  be  stored  by  for  use, 

To  retail  the  next  day  as  most  valuable  news. 

But  while    strangers,  in  crowds,  to  the  cemetery 

g°* 
The    mourners,    O,    never!    "  that  were    aivfnlly 

low  !  " 
Madame  Grundy  has  stamped  it  both  vulgar  and 

mean, 
So  no  fashionable  mourner  at  the  grave    may  be 

seen  ; 
But  the  lone  ones  feel  comforted  thinking — "  well 

he 

Had  a  far  larger  funeral  than  the  late  Mr.  D." 
For  among  the  "  Feejeeans  "  'tis  a  matter  of  boast, 
The  size  of  a  funeral,  its  style  and  its  cost  : 
And  many  poor  minnows  will  spend  all  they  have 
In  dispatching  a  friend  scarce  a  mile  to  the  grave  ; 
Then  in  secret  they'll  pinch  to  such  painful  extent, 
That  their  stomachs  will  mourn,  tho'  their  hearts  be 

content ; 

Such  very  strange  customs  prevail  in  "  Feejee," 
This  curious  island — 'way  out  in  the  sea. 

THE   END. 


